Harrie Pottare, by Agnes Nutter, Witch
by ZomboDeZany
Summary: A little idea about what would have happened if Heaven, Hell and our two favourite agents of theirs were to throw the spanners of nosiness into the wheels of ineffability around the Boy Who Lived...
1. Prologue 1

A/N: I can't deny that my idea for this was inspired by the wonderful fanfiction _Harry Potter and the Discworld_ by JKPratchett. It got me thinking: what would have happened to our old friend HP if Heaven, Hell and our two favourite supernatural agents had been allowed to stick their oars in and throw spanners into the wheels of ineffability? Although this is strictly speaking, a crossover between _Good Omens _and the_ Harry Potter _series, I have used elements from _the Discworld_ series (how can't you when Terry Pratchett is involved?) as well as my (hopefully recognisable, and sometimes hopelessly oblique) references and elements of other culture. Bonne appetite!

**Harrie Potter: Anne alternate hiftory by Agnes Nutter, Witch; dramatised into a more recognisable form of prose by Lucien Iago Morely-Eddington**1

_Dear Reader,_

_It may come to your attention that you are reading an entirely unsuitable book. Or, if you prefer, a book that you may like very much; if you enjoy reading the woeful contents it bears upon its pages. But unless your imagination is of an age-appropriate level, then you may wish to know that the story you are about to embark upon is not a sight intended for those under the age of 21*, and thus should not be read in the dark of night. Within the covers of this volume, you will find: A maltreated orphan, a stylish demon, a fussy angel, a highly unpleasant villain, black magic, a draughty castle, unpleasant food and some wholly unsuitable scenes of varying degrees of intimacy, If you do not approve of this then you would be well advise for the last time to replace this volume on the shelf and venture into a more preferred tome (where you shall enjoy exploring uncharted waters, I'll be bound)._

_Yours, with as much sincerity as warrants the situation,_

_Lucien Iago Morley-Eddington_

*ZDZ: Mr L.I. Morely-Eddington was a rather old-fashioned gent. In our modern times I'd reckon you can read it at 16+

**A Literarrey Device to bee used yn plaice of a Prologgy (whitch comes laytur onne)**

In the beginning, there was nothing, apparently. And in accordance with the natural rules of Nothingness, having nothing to do, or look at, or amuse one can be incredibly tedious. And lo, the supreme being currently known as the Good Lord, and his diametric opposite currently known as the Dark Lord, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon2, had decided to invent The Game. Far more complex and exciting than cricket and more cerebrally challenging than chess, a universe was created. It rests within a large glass sphere, upon a three-legged glass table. This stands in an octagonal chamber 15 feet wide and ten thousand feet high, walled entirely by mirrors, with two mirrored doors. This Hall of Reflection represents the neutral ground between Heaven and Hell.

The Universe, as viewed from the external dimensions, appears to be simply a blue-white orb floating in a velvet-black nothingness studded with shimmering stars. A similar arrangement rests within the Library of Ankh-Morpork's Unseen University. From within, The Universe appears to be infinite, and is a mightily complex place.

Ever since its accidental conception, the rather backwater planetary body known by most denizens of the Milky Way as Sol 3 and described in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy as "Mostly harmless" (otherwise known to its inhabitants as Earth) has been of great interest to the two Supreme beings.

After the Great War (which occurred because the boredom had grown too great), the Game's creation was a welcome break from the bloodshed. Every 5,000 years the Supreme Beings would compare the number of souls they possessed, and, if the being with the largest number of souls felt so inclined, could choose to switch places with the other Supreme Being. Thus, neither one had to be prominently devout or prominently evil for too long a stretch without getting too bored and sparking off another costly war.

To ease tensions in the meantime, if the being currently playing as God felt the need to be a little evil, there would be a shower of rain on the Tunbridge Wells village fete; and if the being playing as the Devil had an irrepressible urge to do a good deed, the Sacred Heart Hospital might receive a large donation from a Ms Lucy Fir.

More recently, a group of shadowy beings from beyond the Universes have settled into both heaven and Hell. These creatures are hell-bent on the destruction of Life, because Life tends to considerably bugger up the paperwork. Especially creative life. Utilising their mastery of deception, their subtle disposition and aggressive bureaucracy these beings have undermined the foundations of all that is Life and are gearing up to push the idol from its pedestal with an almighty crash….

(_)

1 And further updated, edited and footnoted by Zombo de Zany

2 ZDZ: There are a great many clouds in Heaven.


	2. Prologue 2

**A Nice anned Accuratte Prologue**

London, in the Year of Our Lord, 1893. A strange beginning for our tale, dear readers, but nevertheless, all shall be revealed.

A dull yellow sun had risen above the rooftops about 4 hours earlier, and was still there, shining down onto the quiet avenues of the genteel London district. There had been a great deal of commotion earlier, when a man who had walked into one of the houses had enchanted all of the inhabitants of the surrounding neighbourhood to sing popular songs of musicals that had yet to be written**1**. But now, all lay still.

The house in question was not remarkable in any way, except that a family of landed gentry resided there and the young daughter of the house had been kidnapped. The house was large, imposing and decorated with all the right bits of fiddly architecture that would be sure to attract gargoyles before long (gargoyles kept the pigeon population down very effectively, even if one did have to avoid stepping in excreted cement and paving slabs every now and then).

Across the wide, tree-lined avenue stood a similar house; and within the dining room of this house stood a maid, who had been dusting one particular portion of the windowsill for a little longer than was strictly necessary. The maid was peering intently at the house across the road, trying to squint urgently through the net curtains. What she could see was this:

The front door of Lord Anthony Cloade's residence opened and out stepped two men, into the bracing morning air. One of them was..well...he was wearing a pair of white trousers, a white tailcoat, white top hat, a red waistcoat and..he appeared to be a...a cat-man.

The maid, Ivy Stolkes, stared in amazement. The second man to walk out she recognised as Lord Cloade's new temporary butler; he was a young man with raven-black hair, sparkling emerald eyes and skin so deathly pale he would have been mistaken for a vampire, had he not been standing quite calmly in the sunlight that curled lazily over the rooftops and lumbered into the near-deserted street. He was dressed in a gleaming black morning suit and appeared to be talking in serious, avid tones to his bizarre companion.

Ivy gasped again.

"Ivy Stolkes, haven't you finished dusting in there?" called an angry voice. Oh dear. That tone always lead to trouble. Ivy's, usually.

"But...but...Mr Mainwaring! A..a man just...just...well...there was a large puff of smoke, and then he wasn't there any more!" Ivy gabbled quickly, although all it earned her was a clip around the ear for making up such nonsense.

(_)

Far away from that chilly London morning, and into a thundery Paris one, in a back alley, there was another puff of ethereal blue smoke. The strange young man who had been in London mere moments before looked up in surprise at the rain; but was unperturbed. He set off heartily, looking forwards to a fresh croissant and a long chat with an old friend whom he had not seen for a long time.

Just off the Rue de Remarke is situated a small café. There is nothing particularly special about this small eatery, it is small, cosy, warm, has an inglenook fireplace and sells delicious cakes and pastries. It is also a hotspot for gossip, scandal and coffee. It is a place where lovers meet, friends gather and revolutionaries plot to overthrow the government in a coherent way before the next shift starts. There are dozens of cafés like this one all over Paris. What sets this one apart, is one single member of the clientèle.

The angel, Aziraphale, sat quietly at a two-seater windowside table, watching the rain tumble from the stormy skies. He looked to a casual observer, like a scholarly man with golden hair that had had attempts of neatness applied to it, but now fell in its own unkempt style. He was quite good-looking and appeared to be in his mid-thirties. His azure eyes radiated a warmth and friendliness that made him easy to talk to.

He leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers beneath his lips and looked thoughtful, as if pondering the great mysteries of the Universe**2**.

When one meets Aziraphale for the first time; one is prone to forming three immediate impressions about him:

1) He is English.

2) He is as straight as a roundabout.

3) He is intelligent.

Two of these assumptions are wrong. Heaven is not in England, no matter what Wordsworth spouted on and on about the Lake District; angels don't really go in for sex (not that they can't, it's just that mostly they need to make an effort to want to**3**); and angels are intelligent, but apart from being more well-practised than humans, there isn't a vastly great distinction.

The door of the café opened as the bell jingled merrily, in opposition to thunderclap outside. The young man who had just popped in from London scanned the room and, seeing his old chum, sat down opposite him.

"Aziraphale! As I don't live and don't breathe! How are you?" The man exclaimed in delight. To anybody else the later sentence would have seemed uncommonly out of place, however, because the angel knew his friend was a ghost of sorts, it made perfect sense.

"Ah, my dear Nostradamus, it is wonderful to see you, too." Aziraphale smiled serenely. "Now, what will you have? They do a very nice burgundy -" he was cut off, however, before he could complete even the first of the wine selection.

"No, no. Very nice of you to offer, but I'll just have a run-of-the-mill coffee and croissant." Typical Nostradamus: for all his fine clothes, he still preferred bog-standard nosh, when the opportunity arose.

Aziraphale studied his friend's appearance. "Why are you wearing a butler's morning suit, may I ask?"

The man who called himself Nostradamus smiled knowingly. "I was just in London, serving Lord Anthony Cloade for a couple of days. I was trying to solve the mystery of why his daughter was kidnapped." when he saw the look of anguish flit past the angel's countenance he added quickly, "But she wasn't _really_ kidnapped, she merely walked though a portal in space-time into a parallel universe."

Aziraphale, whilst not a sceptical soul by nature, had to draw the line _somewhere_. "Parallel universes? I must protest!"

"Very well, protest all you like." Nostradamus grinned in a way Crowley would have been proud of. After looking around the coffee shop, as the thought occurred to him, Nostradamus could not see the Hell's Angel anywhere. "Is Crowley not joining us?" he asked, looking a mite disappointed.

Aziraphale's cheeks had turned a slightly pinker shade than normal; but it may have simply been an affect of the exceptionally warm fireplace. "Regrettably no... I haven't seen him for a while, in fact. Not since 100 years ago when we said goodbye in this very café... Said he was fed up with all the powdered wigs and lead make-up of the Georgian period so he was going to sleep through the whole of the century. Uh, well..." he coughed slightly and cleared his throat unnecessarily loudly before ploughing on, "it is about Crowley I wish to talk..."

The other man sensed the tone and groaned inwardly, for fear of hurting his friend's feelings. "Look.." he started gently, "I honestly do not believe that you and Crowley becoming an item would be a very wise idea...you're both immortal, for one thing; and trying to make a relationship last for an eternity would soon make you both hate each other, Divine Powers or not."

He paused, not for breath (he hadn't needed to breathe for years) but simply for effect, because this was where a pause would be natural.

Aziraphale looked suddenly crestfallen, and Nostradamus knew all too well how hard angels could smite people when they were upset.

"I just mean that, because you and he are such good friends, it would be sheer folly to ruin what you have now. And I think that you're just feeling this way because you miss him and thus have an idealised picture of him in your mind.**4**" He flashed what he hoped was an encouraging smile, and cast out an aura of goodwill and love for the universe.

The angel looked particularly unmoved by either gestures, his azure eyes downcast.

"I've just remembered! I have a present for you. Well, one for you and a certain demon who shall remain nameless." The young man with emerald green eyes and black hair rummaged in a pocket of his morning coat and finally extracted what looked like a jeweller's ring box. He placed it on the wooden table (avoiding a puddle of coffee and breadcrumbs); and suddenly remembered that he still hadn't ordered for his food. He shelved this thought and decided that since his companion wasn't going to bother looking at the gift presented to him, Nostradamus flipped the lid of the box open. Nestled inside were two identical silver rings with red gemstones set into them.

"Now, these rings are very useful. Not to me, because if I used them nowadays they'd hinder me rather than help me. But they may help you, one day. If you press on the gemstone," (and he did so on one ring and the gem sunk in a little before popping out again, like a TV remote button) "the ring generates a field of magical grace ranging up to ten metres. It means that nothing magical works within the field. I hope you get use out of these little technological beauties."

Aziraphale's interest was piqued a little now, and he stared at the ring. The other man had pressed the ring's gem again and it changed back to red in a wholly unsurprising way.

"But..but surely, magic does not exist? It is a mere invention of mankind's imagination." Aziraphale protested limply.

"How little you know..." Nostradamus grinned mysteriously. A beeping noise emanated from his tailcoat and discovered that it was an electronic personal organiser. "What? I don't even remember making another appointment! Blarsted phase spaces..." he trailed off in annoyance.

The angel hadn't paid any attention to him and he registered it, finally. "Cheer up, old man! Things'll be better soon enough! Now, if you'll excuse me, _apparently_ I have an urgent appointment in the year 2257 three universes over to New New New New New New New New New New New New New York where the King of Dangetrania is going to present a Flashingbadoingdoing prize to the Head Gwoing-Zwoop." he shook his head and sighed in annoyance, and continued in a disgruntled way, "That's the trouble with being a time-space traveller, _everyone_ wants to make work for you... The Doctor and Dirk Gently never had it _this_ bad..." He left a 20-franc note on the table by the ring-box and exited into the stormy, wind-swept and thoroughly damp Parisian morning. He was blissfully unaware that his words, far from giving his friend comfort, had actually darkened his mood even further.

However, Aziraphale pocked the ring-box (after all, being angelic by nature, he wasn't allowed to refuse a gift, it just wouldn't be _right_), unknowing of what trouble the rings would bring he and his demonic friend 114 years down the line...

1 ZDZ: In an effort to entertain his friends, whom he was escorting to the house. His friends had been entertained, albeit with an entertainment that could (and would) later be used as a deadly weapon...

2 ZDZ: What he was actually thinking was: "I do hope he turns up...and I wonder if he wouldn't mind footing the bill...although given that he's lunched with Crowley too, I shouldn't wonder if he'll do it automatically."

3 ZDZ: Crowley has never been _entirely_ sure about Aziraphale's nature of (and disposition to) night-time manoeuvres, however, whenever Oscar Wilde or Noel Coward are mentioned, the angel's cheeks have been known to turn a bright rosé shade.

4 ZDZ: Nostradamus was one of those dreadfully annoying people who never resist an opportunity to give a mini-lecture. I fully plead guilty to being such a person myself.


	3. Chapter 1

A/N: I know in the Harry Potter canon that the stories take place in the '90s but I boosted it so that the major events take place in the 2000s because I wanted a bit of a gap between Adam Young and the Boy Who Lived.

**Chaptur thee Firste**

Similar to three assumptions one makes when one encounters Aziraphale for the first time; one also gathers three initial impressions of Crowley too:

1) He is English.

2) He is stylish.

3) He is intelligent.

One of these is incorrect. Hell is not in England either; however, if you have seen a certain small town called Cambourne**1** in the south-west of Cornwall you can be forgiven for thinking so. Anthony J. Crowley is the epitome of style, and cannot walk into a room any more without all eyes focusing on him. Style is, for most people, a skill learned only after many year's experience; and Crowley had had a large spoonful of life experience. Demonic intelligence is similar to angelic intelligence in that it is not notably higher than human intelligence but has simply had centuries of fine-tuning.

**Mayfair, London, 1993**

It was now three years since the Book of Revelation's predictions had failed (in the nick of time) to come to fruition.

Within three years a lot can change, and changes did indeed happen. Not all of them were good. There was one change, that both Heaven and Hell were unanimous in their praise for, and that Crowley and Aziraphale were both agreed in their hatred for, was the arrival of the Auditors of Reality.

It has often been remarked upon by many people these days that the most feared person is no longer the strong, burly, drunken thug or a mad psychopathic mass-murderer; but little weasely men and women in peaked caps, bowler hats or bun-shaped hairstyles, sensible shoes and an amount of tweed that can't be healthy, sitting in corners and armed with clipboards and the type of pen that squeaks ominously.

The Auditors are the ultimate inspectors, the highest of bureaucrats, the regulators of the universe. They have no imagination, no concept of individuality amongst themselves, and they despise humanity; because humans are messy and unpredictable, as they create an intolerably large amount of paperwork for the Auditors.**2**

In their default shape, the Auditors appear as empty, translucent grey robes; which is somehow more sinister and frightening than claws and pointed teeth.

When the Auditors gave up tried to rid the Discworld of humanity, they concentrated their efforts on Earth, and allied with Heaven and Hell to act as a middle-man. The Auditors were now making reports of angels and demons, filing those reports and sending the appropriate evaluations to the appropriate destination.

This made Aziraphale and Crowley's illegal friendship even more difficult, because they had no way of knowing whether there was an Auditor in the room, taking notes about them until they saw it; meaning that if Heaven learned of an angel fraternising with a demon, the God's Wrath would not be far away; and if Satan discovered that a demon had been even making friends with anyone for a reason that wasn't for entirely selfish purposes, then all Hell would undoubtedly break loose.

The Auditors do have weaknesses: they cannot withstand direct orders, they die if they feel they are becoming an individual, and they cannot sustain anything too unpredictable.

Thus, the only way for Crowley and Aziraphale to meet clandestinely these days was in Crowley's West End flat, in a specially sound-proofed room with jazz music blaring throughout the entire apartment. The Auditors would not survive a full-on attack by Louis Armstrong**3**.

They sat together now, sharing a bottle of wine in the tiny, broom cupboard-sized chamber. At first, they had sat in silence, merely enjoying each other's company. It had been a month since they last spoke, and although they would never admit it aloud, they had missed each other. After the Rapture that Never Was (and they had finally admitted being friends, albeit in a highly understated manner), the bonds between them had been drawn even tighter, and their friendship had evolved into brotherhood. Possibly it was something more, although neither of them ever seemed to quite go that far.

Now they were speaking (in slightly slurred tones due to the alcohol) about the missions that their Higher Ups (or in Crowley's case, Lower Downs) had set them. It turned out to be the same mission, in fact, although approaching it from differing poles.

"So...so...we had...had...I mean, have, yeah, that's it, _have_ to go an' find this special kid an' influence him." Crowley said, staring at three Aziraphales, all of whom were swaying a little.

"Indubitdupitdupitdupitablyly," his counterpart slurred, as he gazed blearily at the demon, "We have to wasstch iver, wissth hother; erm, look out for this Parry 'Otter boy, although, although _I_ have to make sure he turns out good." He attempted to stand, and to point an accusatory finger at Crowley, but, after failing at each attempt, slumped back against the wall. "Whereas, _you_ 'as to, to..."

"To make him bad. Yeah." It was only when Crowley tried to pass the wine bottle back to the Aziraphale on the left, that he decided to sober up.

The angel still had enough grip remaining on himself to follow suit. After sitting still and going rigid for a few seconds as the alcohol was evaporated out of their bloodstreams, Aziraphale waved a manicured hand lazily and the remnants of the smashed bottle vanished into the ether.

"So to clarify then, we both have to make sure this Harry Potter stays neutral." the angel declared, standing up on legs that were decidedly unshaky.

"Or thereabouts," Crowley added, hissing slightly. "I was told that the family he's going to be left in is pretty much rotten so I won't have to interfere much. Hopefully." This last word was said without too much enthusiasm, coming from one who has had plenty of life experience, and knows not to expect much from his superiors when things take a turn for the not-so-peachy.

"And I hope so too. The Metatron told me that Harry is supposed to be good-natured, although if his upbringing isn't good, then who knows...?"

"Heaven knows, I reckon. And Hell too, as well, by now. Those bloody Auditors are driving me up the wall.**4**" he hissed again, in frustration.

Aziraphale gently laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I know, dear, I know. It is a bruise, but it should soon heal."

Demons do not like to admit defeat, but Crowley acquiesced. " Yeah, I s'pose you're right. Let's just get up to Surrey then, and deal with this. But I still don't see what's so special about this kid anyway..."

(_)

1 ZDZ: I gather that Mr L.I. Morely-Eddington had had an unfortunate experience there when he was 16. He had been simultaneously been mugged and raped (by a woman called Virginia Lestrange (ironic, isn't it?)) and incarcerated for handing out sweets to the poor all on the same day. I myself do not dislike Cambourne and shall not wish to partake in the vicious rumours circulating about that charming little town.

2 ZDZ: The Auditors have tried many times on the Discworld, to "remove" humanity. They are not allowed to simply snuff out life, because that would be against The Rules. They can influence other humans, however, (in ways such as bribery) in order to carry out their wishes. The Auditors also visited Earth once in an attempt to stop Charles Darwin from writing _On the Origin of Species_ and slow humanity's scientific advances and slowly exterminate them (see _The Science of Discworld III: Darwin's Watch _for more details).

3 ZDZ: And Crowley wouldn't approach him after being walloped on the head by Mr Armstrong's trombone for reasons the demon would never divulge to anyone.

4 ZDZ: Crowley had actually accomplished this feat once, in 1937, when he was caught speeding in New York by a particularly sharp policeman. He had successfully demolished a good career and crime flourished rapidly through the neighbourhood when the underworld caught wind of a nutty copper who had hallucinations of cars driving vertically up skyscrapers.


	4. Chapter 2

**Chaptur thee Seconde**

The corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had remained silent and empty all summer, with only a few teachers bustling about, anxiously awaiting the new arrivals and familiar faces to arrive, and planned their lessons studiously.

High up in his large office, Professor Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster, sat at his large, hardwood desk, studying some very old and yellowing papers, covered in an ancient text printed in mysterious runes. A phoenix stood on a perch above an ashtray nearby, looking as old and frail as its master.

There was no sudden movement, no flash, no indicative noise of any form. Not immediately. Very simply, there were three empty, translucent, cowled black robes, hanging in the air in the middle of the room in from of the desk.

When no attention was paid to them, one of them gave a small cough.

The old wizard behind the desk looked up sharply, with only a little surprise showing within his shining baby-blue eyes that twinkled behind half-moon spectacles. Before he had a chance to speak, the three robes did, in unison.

_Good evening. You are Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, are you not?_ They robes did not so much speak, as simply project the memory of having spoken into the listener's brain.

"Good evening to you, I'm sure. That is to say, I am indeed he. Can I be of any assistance?" Dumbledore enquired politely, as if they had arrived by invitation. "You are not ghosts, and although you greatly resemble them, you are certainly not Dementors. May I be so bold as to ask whom I am addressing?"

_We are the Auditors of Reality. We are here on behalf of the Metatron, who requests an audience with you._

"The Metatron? The so-called Voice of God? I am flattered, to say the least." Dumbledore leaned forwards now, decidedly interested. As he laid his hands on his desk to he laced his fingers together, as he always did when he was in deep thought.

_We were not aware you were alert to the existence of Heaven._ Although usually incapable of expressing emotions, which they despised, the barest of hints of surprise had crept into one of the Auditor's voices.

"Oh yes, I have known for years, I am afraid. Although I suspect that I am one of the few wizards who does know that at least a few of the stories within 'The Good Book' are actually fact, not fiction. I was not aware that such beings as yourselves existed. There is no scripture featuring you anywhere on Earth that I know of." Dumbledore's voice was light and cheerful as he spoke, with a small smile playing on his lips.

_You will take audience with the Metatron? _

Dumbledore, did not speak, but tilted his head forwards, very slightly. A sound like rustling paper filled the air, and moments later, a tottering mountain of forms materialised upon the desk, which groaned, sagged, and finally, collapsed into a heap of splintered planks and sawdust.

The Headmaster looked at the heap of rubble and paper in front of him, and sighed. However, he seemed to be amused more than anything else. He waved his wand and a single form floated into his slightly gnarled hand and studied the sheet of paper intently.

The forms were covered from header to footer in black ink, with many footnotes and little bits of small print, many disclaimers, revisions and amendments to previous versions of the forms, and a great deal of mentioning of what should happen if the recipient were to make a similar contract with the Devil**1**.

Even with his great intellect, Dumbledore was struggling to make sense of sheer cliff face of phrases, numbers and legal niceties that were the pride of the bureaucratic elite.

"Do you wish me to sign on every marked line?" he asked politely, staring at the volume of papers littering the floor, and noticing neat little 'X's in red ink spaced carefully here and there alongside dotted lines.

Just as the three Auditors were about to enunciate an affirmative, another voice snapped:

"Oh for Heaven's _sake_!" and an angel appeared in a ball of blue-white heavenly light, which faded and revealed a large pair of white feathered wings attached, so it seemed, to a tall and muscular man with golden-blonde hair wearing long robes with azure hemlines. A golden halo hovered above his head. An expression of annoyance hovered on his cherubic face, and looked oddly out of place, somehow.

The angel bowed low before the wizard, and spake unto him, in an upper-class voice laced with impatience, "Sorry about that lot, they've been working with us for a while now; but they can't seem to dispose of the red tape. I'm Gabriel, by the way," he added as an afterthought. The angel waved a hand at the three empty hovering robes. "Shoo! Shoo!" The Auditors 'shooed' and melted into thin air.

Albus Dumbledore had the distinct impression that Gabriel would much rather be elsewhere than here.

"Right, I'll just clear this mess up and then the Metatron wants a few words. One miracle, coming up!" the angel pointed at the veritable mountain of paperwork which vanished, with the customary small thunderclap of air rushing in to occupy a vacant space. The ruined desk repaired itself and settled into place, the objects that had been upon it before the avalanche were also restored to full health.

"I do not recall this being present here beforehand," Dumbledore said, a highly amused smile tugging the corners of his mouth and making his beard twitch in a way which gave Gabriel a reason to frown. The Headmaster gestured towards the copy of a _Playdemon_ magazine on his desk. The front cover displayed several androgynous incubi wearing very little in the way of clothes. "If I might keep this for future reference?" the wizard asked.

Gabriel blinked. "I _beg_ your pardon?" he exploded, apparently scandalised, in an overly-accusatory voice, glad that the attention of the appearance of such a document had not reflected upon _him_.

"This." Dumbledore waved the one form of the Auditors' that had remained in that plane of existence (because it had been in the wizard's hand and not with the others when they were wished out of the Universe). Dumbledore held out the lewd magazine to Gabriel who snatched it up and stuffed it unceremoniously into a fold in his robes. "I imagine you have other things on your mind than simply meeting me tonight."

By now Gabriel looked as though he wanted nothing more than to smite the old man very hard (before nipping off to his Temptation with Incubus #69)**2**.

The angel thanked his lucky stars that a bright beam of white-blue light, wreathed at the top in small fluffy clouds, appeared out of the ceiling and shone in front of the Headmaster's newly-reconstituted desk. A being that resembled a young man composed solely of golden fire was suddenly standing in the light.

"**You may go, Gabriel."** He said in a bored, yet well-educated voice, that echoed as though it was an entire chorus of heavenly hosts all by itself.

Gabriel bowed reverentially at the Metatron and vanished in another flash of blue-white light.

"It is is good to finally make your acquaintance. I have heard much about you." Dumbledore said calmly, looking at the being before him as though the Metatron was about as surprising as a standard lamp.

"**Yes. Well, that is rather neither here nor there nor anywhere else. We have a matter of great importance to discuss. You may be aware that the most evil wizard upon the planet was discorporated mere hours ago."** The Metatron said blandly. Blandness was his strong suit. He simply had to stand next to a bottle of Wow-Wow Sauce**3** to make it turn tasteless.

"I was indeed aware of Lord Voldemort's demise, yes." Dumbledore was as calm and impassive as ever. He was trying to keep himself steady, despite the fact that two more tragedies had occurred.

"**Demise? He is not dead, Dumbledore. He is discorporated. His body is destroyed but his soul is still at large. However, the more pressing matter is the boy, Harry Potter. The Good Lord believes that this boy can defeat Voldemort once again."**

"Once again? Would be able Voldemort to return?" Dumbledore was trying to keep his voice level, but was failing dismally.

"**Yes. History shall be repeated. Just as Germany recovered from the First World War to instigate the Second World War, Lord Voldemort's followers shall presumably rally to reincarnate him as soon as they are able. They boy shall be protected from the forces of evil by one of our agents, who is our long-term representative on Earth. He shall not interfere with Harry Potter's life directly, but merely watch over him from the sidelines to ensure that he grows up to be righteous and courageous."**

Dumbledore received this information quietly and rose majestically to his feet. "Very well, then." he glanced at his pocket watch with twelve hands and lots of little planets circulating around the edge of the face. "I shall now proceed to Surrey where I am to meet a colleague, who has been assessing whether Harry's only surviving family is fit to live with."

(_)

1 ZDZ: If you believe that Hell's contracts are bad, wait until you see Heaven's. Although neither of them are quite as ruthlessly dull as the the bureaucratic beauties cooked up by the Auditors.

2 ZDZ: Very reasonable rates, does exciting things with leather straps and feather dusters, so long as you provide the swimming goggles and don't jiggle about too much. Ahem. ...So I've been told, of course.

3 ZDZ: The strongest and most potent spicy sauce in the Discworld. In mild accidents it has blown the scalps off careless diner's heads.


	5. Chapter 3

**Chaptare thee Thyrd**

Privet Drive, Little Whinging, was about as ordinary a suburb as one could wish to find. Or rather, one would not wish to find, if one was not predisposed to think that appearance was everything, and what the neighbours thought was of paramount importance, and keeping up with the Joneses was the unwritten by-law. Such was life in Privet Drive.

If Mr Porrit at Number 10 had popped off one fine Saturday morning to purchase a new flashy executive saloon, then woe betide anyone whose car was not spotless by the time he'd returned.

If Mrs Gingham at Number 47 had made sure to keep her front lawn trimmed, green and a weed-forbidden zone, then anybody who had not followed her clearly sensible example would be met with disapproving and cold stares from all those who had.

And if Mrs Figg, the batty old cat lady who lived in Wisteria Walk, tottered through Privet Drive on her way to the shops, if one did not pretend she was not actually within the same plane of existence, one would be forced to have to accept glowering, reproachful stares and overly-loud whispers in references to one as one ventured nervously outside the front door to collect the milk and newspaper.

Life in Privet Drive was not so much a suburb as a prototype police state waiting to become actuality. This was the opinion of a small grey-and-black striped tabby cat with marking around its eyes that gave it the look of wearing spectacles.

As the night drew in, the cat remained upon the cold garden wall, still watching the house.

From within Number 4, there was a small commotion. The telephone was ringing.

This was not an uncommon occurrence, the phone usually rang at Number 4, Privet Drive, as it was supposed to. However, the phone at Number 4, Privet Drive, seldom rang in the small hours of the morning since the Dursleys had lived there**1**.

Vernon Dursley, who had been on his way back from a visit to the bathroom when he heard the device begin to ring, growled in annoyance. "Who the devil's phoning at this time of night?" he barked in strangled tones.

Clad in pyjamas in a puce colour that now matched the tinge of his large, blubbery face; red corduroy dressing gown and purple carpet slippers, he stomped nosily down the stairs, as if wishing to make the travesty known to the entire household.

Clutching the telephone receiver with what appeared to be a side of ham with several large Cumberland sausages attached to it, he exploded into the mouthpiece: "Yes? What the hell do you think you're playing at, calling at this time of night?" but he received no answer. He failed to notice the blue-winged butterfly that had seemed to materialise from the earpiece, which then flitted hurriedly into the lounge where it discovered an ajar window where it zoomed off into the night, searching for a black Bentley.

Muttering angrily about the declining standards of youth these days, Mr Dursley stumped angrily back up the stairwell as if he had a personal grudge against each and every stair, and slammed the door of his bedroom.

It was a miracle that nobody else in the house was woken up.

(_)

_Click!_

A man with shining silver waist-length hair and a similar beard, who was wearing long, flowing robes had pulled from these robes, what appeared to be a large silver cigarette lighter. He had clicked it once, and the light from the nearest street lamp had been sucked from its bulb. The man continued his walk along the concrete pavement, looking very much out of place, clicking the Deluminator as he strolled along until he reached Number 4. All the light in the street had been extinguished.

"Good evening, Professor McGonagall." said Professor Dumbledore to the cat, which transformed very rapidly into an old woman wearing green robes and a black pointed witch's hat.

"Albus? Is it really true? Is He Who Must Not Be Named really dead?" She asked, trying to sound crisp. It had been very chilly on that wall all day.

"It is indeed true, Minerva." Dumbledore bowed his head slightly in agreement.

"And what of the boy?" McGonagall whispered, not allowing too much worry creep into her voice. One did not reach her position of Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts by being seen to worry.

Dumbledore smiled in the darkness. "Hagrid is bringing him. Ah-" he muttered calmly as a gigantic man sitting astride a large motorbike touched down on the road, very loudly, in front of the two figures. If Vernon Dursley hadn't drifted back to sleep again he would certainly have had words to say about the little episode that was unfolding on his doorstep. Four letter words.

"Evenin' all." said the giant, clambering off the motorcycle and extracting a small bundle from the side-car. "Little toike fell asleep just as we were flyin' overr Bristol." he said fondly, in his deep West Country accent.

He sniffed, great salty tears running down his cheeks and beard, as he laid the bundle onto the doorstep as gently as possible.

"Albus, I'm not at all sure it is right to leave the boy here. I have been watching these people all day. They are the _worst_ sort of Muggles I have ever come across. How can he be left here, when there are people in our world who already know his name and revere it as much as You-Know-Who's is despised?" McGonagall whispered fiercely, her hawk-like eyes darting from the Headmaster to Hagrid, scanning them in what little light from the crescent moon there was.

"Precisely. He will be far, far better off growing up away from all that." Dumbledore bent down and placed two envelopes onto the bundle. "Although I do not think there will be any undue reason for distress. As the saying goes, someone Up There likes him." he smiled at his own little joke. McGonagall didn't look the slightest bit amused, and she did not bother to ask Dumbledore why he had left two envelopes when one would have sufficed. No doubt he had one of his schemes in mind.

She took the arm proffered to her and they strolled down the street, the wizard releasing balls of light from the Deluminator as he did so. The motorcycle, now with gigantic driver, whizzed off into the night sky once more, chugging as it did so.

Three uneventful minutes passed, until a small blue butterfly flitted back from Wisteria Walk, where it had strayed, apparently in conversation with three translucent cowled robes that hovered along with it.

A matte black 1926 Bentley swept into the street, touching nearly 90mph and skidded loudly to a halt outside Number Four.

The butterfly vanished and became Aziraphale, who stared in mock surprise at the Bentley, as though he had never known it was due to arrive here.

He cleared his throat loudly, as Crowley stepped out the driver's side onto the pavement with effortless, well-practised grace.

"Uh, begone, foul demon! Back into thy blackest pits of Hell from whence ye came!" The angel enunciated clearly, albeit in a half-hearted way.

Crowley was about to ask what the hell Aziraphale was talking about, when he took note of the Auditors and hurriedly waved a hand at the Bentley, from which loud rock music began pumping wildly. It was unpleasant music, but the one good thing you could say about it was that at least it wasn't anything by Freddie Mercury**2**.

The grey cowled robes were winked out of existence by the sheer randomness of the music.

"It's at times like this that I really do wish I'd bought some chocolates with me..." The angel lamented.

"Why not do as I do and just manifest them?" Crowley enquired for what felt to be the hundredth time.

"I do have certain moral standard to maintain, dear boy." the angel replied stiffly and walked a little frostily up the well-trimmed garden path towards the front doorstep of the house.

Both entities were agreed that this was the most repulsive neighbourhood they had ever set foot in.

"So that's him..." Crowley whispered, looking at the small, one-year-old with jet-black hair and lightening bolt-shaped, then looking greedily at the two envelopes. "Here, one's addressed to you." he handed the envelope addressed to _Mr Erasmus Fell, the Doorstep, Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey; _to his friend, and started to tear open the second envelope when he caught the other man's eye.

"If you want to be demonic, go and let some tires down or scratch some paintwork or something." snapped the man whose voice was supposed to be cherubic.

"Y'know, you can have good ideas sometimes." muttered Crowley slyly with a smirk of satisfaction before making a precise scratch with a newly-manifested nail along Vernon Dursley's company car (just below the driver-side door handle where it would be most noticeable).

Aziraphale opened (carefully and neatly) the envelope addressed to him.

_Dear Mr Fell,_

_I have received word from your superiors that you are to provide Harry Potter with a positive influence upon his life until he reaches the age of eleven. I wish you the best of luck, and must stress most urgently upon you not to let Harry know of your existence unless the situation is very dire. The fate of the entire globe rests upon his shoulders, if my calculations are correct._

_Indeed, if my calculations are unfortunately correct, you will receive another letter from me in an approximation of 14 years' time._

_Although I do look forwards to making your acquaintance of course, it would not be advisable to do so unless under extreme conditions._

_Yours sincerely, _

_Albus Dumbledore _

Aziraphale motioned to the demon to rejoin him. Crowley, letting go of the tyres of a car at Number 47 across the road, allowed the tyres to continue deflating by themselves and crossed to his friend, who handed him the letter. After allowing his yellow eyes to briefly flash down the neat, spidery writing, the demon crumpled up the note and tossed to the angel and shrugged.

"That was well worth the visit, I mean, it's not as if it told something us something we didn't know already." Crowley said in a carrying voice; there couldn't have been any less sarcasm in there if he tried.

1 ZDZ: And the neighbours soon wished that they hadn't, after the events of the night in question.

2 ZDZ: Crowley's cassette tapes kept morphing into hits by Freddie Mercury if they were left in the car for more than a fortnight, so an aversion to such songs is understandable.


	6. Chapter 4

**Chaptare the Fourrtth **

It was now five entire years since the Boy Who Lived had been placed into the unwelcome and often spiteful hands of his only living relatives, the Dursleys, and the young Harry Potter was in the front garden, being teased by his cousin Dudley, and Dudley's select group of friends. These friends were not yet ready to be catalogued as a "gang"; for at that tender age they had no notion of gangs, but in their minds lurked the unconscious idea that would place them into a gang later on in life.

For now, however, they were still as cruel as children often can be, and were teasing our young hero about his glasses, whilst a boiling sun beat down onto the yellowing lawns of Privet Drive (a hosepipe ban had been issued, meaning that even the fastidious inhabitants of that curséd suburb had to suffer as their once-manicured lawns withered before their eyes).

"Four-eyes, four-eye, four-eyes!" they chanted, over and over again, into a kind of war-beat.

They had formed a game of "piggy-in-the-middle" where one person is the "piggy" and has to try and catch the object that all the other players (arranged in a lose circle) are tossing about over his or her head. It is certainly much harder to play this game, if the object you are trying to catch is also the object that enables your clear vision; and it is a game made ten times worse when all the other players are out to get you.

Harry Potter was spinning about frantically like a squirrel in a cement mixer, trying feverishly to snatch his glasses out of the air as they were tossed every which way by his cousin's cronies. "Please! Give them back!" he yelled.

"Why would you want them back, Potty-head?" Dudley Dursley shouted, spitting in Harry's face.

"Dudley darling! Come and see what treatises Mummy's got for you and your little friends!" called the simpering tones of Harry's cruel and avariciously house-proud Aunt Petunia, a woman so obsessed with keeping her house tidy that she even had a routine pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Aunt Petunia was the sort of woman who dotes on her son, and is blind to all his faults.

"See you later, four-eyes!" Dudley pushed his cousin over onto the hard, moisture-less ground. "But you won't see me!" and with that fierce taunt he threw Harry's glasses carelessly over his shoulder where they skittered onto the warm tarmac road.

Dudley's friends gave another jeering of "Four-eyes!" before scurrying indoors in the same manner of fat greedy pigs eager for the trough.

Harry felt more annoyed with them than ever. But he couldn't see that there was anything he could do in this powerless position, and he was used to being picked on by now, so he slowly stood up and walked carefully over to the blurry road. Once he felt his feet step down off the curb of the tarmac pavement he dropped gently onto his hands and knees and began scrabbling about for his spectacles in a way which many fans of the "Scooby-Doo" fandom will find highly familiar.

He was unaware of a figure dressed in a Victorian morning suit lounging on a low garden wall on the opposite side of the road and two houses along.

The man had a bulbous forehead, thin cheek and a receding hairline of thin brown hair, that gave him the appearance of a man whose face has been squashed at the bottom and had all the flesh forced up into the top half. His thin lips moved silently as he read the leather-bound tome he was balancing in his left hand. Occasionally the book would stay where it was even when he didn't hold onto it.

All of this remained unnoticed by Harry, but it was noticed by Harry's Uncle Vernon, who was in his bedroom, changing. He had been in the act of pulling on a set of golfing trousers when he saw the curious figure out of the bedroom window. He swore loudly, tried to scurry backwards in fright, but tripped as his trousers were still around his ankles, crashed painfully into the sharp corner of the bedside table and swore loudly again.

"Vernon! Vernon are you alright?" his wife shrieked in fright.

Uncle Vernon clambered to his feet and pulled his trousers up around his expanding waistline. He was now in a Bad Mood. He no longer cared who this...this freak was, but he wasn't going to remain on the same street as Vernon Dursley, no sir!

"I'm fine, Petunia dear, I just tripped, that's all!" he called in mock-cheerful tone. He stormed downstairs within his own personal thundercloud of hatred and paused in the hallway. He picked up his golfing bag that rested against the umbrella stand by the front door. In his family's eyes he looked like a professional golfer who could take on those Californian big-shots across the pond any day. To everyone else, he was, and would forever be, a complete and utter tit who deserved to be skewered on his own putter and then battered to a pulp with the driver before being left on the green to be hit by lightening.

He opened the front door with far more force than was actually necessary and caught sight of his nephew scrabbling about in the road. "BOY! Get inside!" Vernon roared in a manner not unlike that of a bullfrog.

Both Harry and the stranger looked up startled at this outburst within an otherwise peaceful atmosphere.

Uncle Vernon dropped his golfing set**1**and, with fury in his heart, strode in what he clearly hoped was an intimidating way towards the bizarre person sitting on the garden wall in front of Number 44.

Before he could reach the man, however, an old-fashioned black car tore down the road at an alarming pace. The man on the wall seemed to anticipate this, and, before he knew what was happening, Vernon saw the odd figure dash towards Harry (who had just found his glasses and saw the car zooming towards him) and pushed the boy out of the way. The man himself was not so fortunate.

Vernon had often heard of car accidents on the telly, but they were always things that happened to Other People. The Dursleys were not the sort of people who got mixed up in car crashes, even if they had lied to the Boy about his parent's deaths and used it as an excuse.

The car screeched to a screaming dead halt, leaving long, rubbery tire marks on the hot road. A tall thin man who looked like a spider-turned-human (also dressed in a morning suit) unfolded himself out of the Bentley and hurried over to the fallen man.

"Oh my god! Angel, are you okay?" he he gasped, and looked at Vernon as if he was supposed to be doing more than staring. "Don't just stand there with your chubby mouth hanging open, lard-arse! Get the kid inside!" The look in those yellow eyes was enough to put the fear of God into Vernon, who had never set foot in a church in his life.

Uncle Vernon grabbed Harry by the scruff of the neck and dragged him into the house. He shoved Harry into the cupboard under the stairs (which served as the boy's bedroom) and slammed the door, bolting it vigorously. He returned to the doorstep, whilst Petunia tried to stop the children in the house looking out of the living-room window at the hideous scene.

The second man rolled the first man onto his back and looked into the blue eyes. The first man said calmly "I'll be alright, my dear boy. I think I'll try and get a body similar to my old one but about your age this time; Heaven knows Gabriel owes me a favour."

"Why?" The second man asked, a sly grin blossomed on his face that looked very much as if it shouldn't be there. The face looked as if it were rented, rather than the wearer's real one. Vernon tried again to convince himself of the non-existence of magic.

"Well," the first man continued in his educated tones, "Gabriel and I were sent to see the Metatron; and a copy of _Fruits of Heaven_ slipped out of his robe. I covered up for him. I was smited a good deal, but it should pay off now. I'll see you in a few weeks time, if those wretched Auditors will leave me alone for ten minutes!" the last few words escaped as a kind of demented shriek.

Vernon backed away into the doorway, not understanding a word these two wierdos were talking about; but he found it odd that wizards were also religious maniacs as well. He found it oddly fascinating, as well, and was unable to tear his eyes away, as his brain was urging to tell him.

"Okay, I'd better go; I think I can see an Auditor appearing over there." the second man stood up, gave his dying friend a cheery wave and clambered back into his car. He seemed to be staring at a tree, in front of which floated a- no, no, that was impossible! The car tires screamed as the black Bentley lurched forwards and sped off.

The man who was dying lifted himself up (impossibly) onto swaying legs at Vernon and said weakly "They say God forgives all those who cross to the other side of the road rather than face the scenes they dare not think about. But there are also those who have long memories who are not so quick to forgive. I would recommend you readjust your priorities, my good man. Now, if you'll excuse, me, Samaritan, I have to be elsewhere. I would also suggest you attend to your Dahlias, they need watering." After this long tirade, the man staggered forwards and gestured towards the house (screams emanated from the lounge shortly afterwards).

The dying man suddenly glowed with a strong blue-white light that eclipsed all other light around – even the sunlight appeared old and faded. The glowing sphere of light formed a swirling vortex of wind that imploded upon itself and winked out of existence.

The street remained quiet, apart from the screams in Number 4, which signified that the coffee table had just been transformed into a large pile of maggots.

(_)

1 ZDZ: Although he never mentioned it and would almost certainly die before admitting it, he still didn't understand golf after two years of playing it, and so carried about with him the "The Boy's Book of Golfing Tips" in his golfing beret. (£4.99 from all good retailers. Not available in all universes. Not to be ingested or used as a flotation device.)


	7. Chapter 5

**Chaptere thee Fyfthe**

Crowley was sitting in his Bentley, longing to take it up to 90mph, but considering that he was stuck in the middle of a traffic jam, this would not have been a wise move. The sun blazed down from the azure heavens and beat down hard upon the streets of London. He regretted popping the tyres of that flash motor up ahead, as now he was boxed in on all sides and trapped in stifling heat. Well, not quite. He was enjoying a cooling breeze and a tall glass of iced tea – something nobody else had, and they were trapped within their metal ovens for at least another 30 minutes, fanning themselves in vain with newspapers, magazines or whatever else came to hand.

He smiled to himself, and thought that perhaps this traffic jam wasn't such a waste of time. That was where the real work of Hell was, he thought, not by burning down department stores (regardless of whether a horde of window shop dummies brought to life by a hostile alien force was inside it at the time or not) or murdering people. Because if one did destroy a department store, what happened? There would be a few inquiries, the whole thing would be demolished and something new would be built in its stead and everyone would forget the whole thing in a few years – and you lost a good place to buy new threads – not that Crowley ever needed to, of course.

But, if you blocked the telephones lines or set up a traffic jam, (this was where the genius lay) large numbers of people became angry and took this anger and frustration out on other people, who took it out on more people, and thus instead of just one large evil incident, there would occur lots of little evil incidents that amounted to the same "mass" for a fraction of the work involved.

Crowley briefly wondered about popping down to Soho to see how the angel was getting on - they hadn't spoken directly or seen each other in the flesh for about 3 years now, not since the Auditors had started to monitor them everywhere they went. Although this was frustrating him, it did give Crowley a giggle every now and then.

Because angels had certain moral standards to maintain, they felt morally obliged to buy their own clothes, use the electricity provided and didn't like to simply wish themselves clean – they had to wash, like everyone else. It always gave the demon a laugh to think of the fastidious and gentlemanly Aziraphale unable to shower with three robes staring coldly at him, even from behind a plastic curtain.

It was almost a year and a month since that snake had escaped from London Zoo. Odd, that. Crowley had checked with Downstairs to see if they'd sent anyone. He had also left a letter with Aziraphale – in code, of course. They had worked out a system of writing letters in nonsense verse - something random and strange enough the Auditors couldn't understand. Posting the letters had been more of a challenge until they started scenting the pages with wild and exotic colognes.

Crowley had last written:

_The old man looked asunder_

_Like a yellow turning peach_

_And to the rising shining eagle_

_He once more did beseech:_

"_Do you have my balls sir?_

_I know it to be true_

_For Mistress Brown removed her gown_

_Before I lost them in my stew."_

The angel had replied:

_And so the shining rising eagle_

_Did glibly rally a reply_

"_I'm sorry sir, for I have none_

_lest I fall down from the sky."_

_(And try not to be so...__coarse__ next time!)_

None of it could be called great poetry, but it got the job done. Crowley's gaze started roaming across the high rooftops and towards the Post Office Tower. He suddenly bolted upright, blessing under his breath as the iced tea (third, to be precise) had just slopped all over him.

Was that-? Was that...a flying car? He blinked and looked again. Not only was it a car, but it was flying over this street! It was a battered old Ford Anglia, that chugged and spluttered, as though unsure of why it was even up there.

As the car floated over the street, Crowley's Bentley lurched forwards suddenly, as though it was a hellhound on heat. For a second time the demon wished the spilt iced tea off himself. He felt a rush of wind as though something had shimmered past him by inches in the air. If he had looked out of the window towards the pavement just three seconds sooner, he would have seen a woman dressed in swimming flippers and a ski jacket tucking a thin wooden wand into the pocket of her pink jeans.

(_)

One year had elapsed.

Aziraphale was feeling dejected as he sat down at the desk in the back room of his little bookshop in Soho. He had made himself a fresh mug of cocoa, but it did little to improve his mood. He plonked down a fresh diary onto the desk and began to scribble furiously.

The one positive thing that could be said about his forced segregation from his only friend was that he could at last write down his true thoughts in his diaries. Before, Aziraphale had always suspected that the demon would manifest a copy of his diary whenever he wasn't looking and take it home to read; so the angel was always conscientious about what he wrote in it.

Now, however, he had been able to pour out his heart into the pages of diaries for four years (they took up two broom cupboards, (carefully and continuously filled with jazz music playing from nowhere)), as he was doing now. Lately, he had realised that his old feelings for Crowley had been resurfacing. He tried to convince himself that it was nothing, tried to follow the advice given to him long ago, back in 1893, but could not. He missed Cowley, certainly; but there was more to it than that. It was a corny thought, certainly, but he felt that the demon completed him; far, far more completely than anything else in his life.

He finally stopped writing around midnight, and closed the now three-quarters-full diary with a small sigh, taking care to scent it with eucalyptus and honey so as to keep the Auditors at bay. The cocoa was now stone cold. He felt so depressed he couldn't even be bothered to warm it up in the kitchen and drank it as it was.

He knew what must be done. The Auditors had just left him, and the angel knew that if he didn't make his monthly report that matched up to their monthly report, he would be in trouble. He didn't much want _another_ 50 smitings.

He rolled up the small oval rug in the middle of the room and revealed a chalk circle decorated with arcane runes and sigils. He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out seven small candles which he arranged at even intervals around the circle. After lighting the candles he stepped into the circle and said the Words. After an interval of seven seconds and beam of blue-white light shone down through the ceiling and a rather bored and lofty voice asked:

"**Yes?"**

"It is I, Aziraphale."

"**What kept you?"** enquired the well-educated tones of the Metatron.

"Pardon?" the angel asked, looking confused.

"**You are late."** A hint of testiness had crept into the Metatron's voice.

"I wasn't aware that celestial monthly reports _could_ be late." Aziraphale replied, allowing bitterness to gnaw at his vocal chords.

"**They can be now. What has happened recently? What has happened to the boy, Harry Potter?"** the Metatron was never one to mince words. It was as impatient as a small child in a sweet shop, although it had the demeanour of a glove sales accountant with a bad head cold.

"Well, um...I went over to his house, I did not meet anyone, apart from helping that dear old Mrs Figg cross the road, bless her soul, and I saw a very horrible woman inflated to five times her size floating off into the sky. Was that a miracle performed by one of us, or one of the party Down There?" Aziraphale knew he was babbling, but he couldn't help it, the Metatron always intimidated him into chronic nervousness.

"**Would you call Down Below a party?"** Anger was unmistakeable in the Voice of God now.

"Oh, well, now you mention it; I would rather like to...to...apply for a Transfer..." the angel said weakly, quailing at the rumble of thunder that echoed from the voice. He wasn't up to arguing with this cosmological bully at the moment.

"**A Transfer? You dare to stray from the Love of God?"** The Metatron thundered. There was a long, awkward silence, before the Voice of God continued in more civilised tones **"Er. You are aware that there is a long waiting list? You won't be Transferred for at least two years."**

Aziraphale sighed in resignation. He had been afraid the Metatron would have put up a greater fight simply to annoy him. Luckily he hadn't. "That sounds perfect." he said happily and hopped out of the circle before another words could be issued. The light faded huffily.

The angel collapsed into the chair beside the desk, satisfaction replaced by grim apprehension and pondered over what the Heaven he had just done.


	8. Chapter 6

**Chapturr thee Syxth**

Harry Potter's 15th birthday had passed two weeks ago... and yet...he couldn't believe that he was still trapped in Privet Drive. It was once again another achingly warm and oppressive summer. Although it has been mentioned before that Hell is not in England, to Harry's mind nothing came closer to it than the stuffy, curtain-twitching world of snobbery known as Privet Drive. The middle-class suburban nightmare where the only way out was horizontally.

His feelings of being stuck there as though he was a wingless fly in the bottom of an empty milk bottle were not without undue foundations. His best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger had been...well...they _had_ been writing to him, but none of their letters had been what you'd call _helpful_ in any way. All they'd both said were things like "see you soon, mate" and "I hope we'll be seeing you soon" - but soon was just infuriatingly vague. He just felt useless, kept in the same vacuous place where he was treated no better than a woodlouse. All the neighbours simply referred to him as "that Potter boy" and looked down their long noses at him. He had never wished to return to Hogwarts more. It was a place where he was at least treated as a human being, rather than a piece of furniture.

But he shelved these thoughts as he saw his cousin Dudley and his gang (yes, they were unfortunately now at the age to be properly called a gang) approach him. He had been sitting on the vandalised swings in the local play park, brooding over the non-events of the summer, when Dudley bade his gang farewell**1**to a chorus of "See ya Big D!" and strode off down Magnolia Crescent on his way home.

"Yo, Big Dizzle! You as much shizzle as the nizzle ya pizzle?"

Dudley Dursley didn't turn, exactly – watching his solid mass revolve about in a half circle was akin to observing a tank turret rotate. He gyrated slowly about, pinpointing the source of the nonsensical statement to its source. The light of hope drained off his face when he discovered that the noise had been created, not by a member of his loyal gang, but by his annoying cousin, Harry Potter.

"Huh." Dudley grunted. "Whatja want?" he began stumping back along Magnolia Crescent, as Harry feel into step beside him.

"Nothing, really. Just wondered how long you'd been called 'Big D'. Just wondered if I ought to tell the guys what your mummy calls you." Harry said glibly, feeling satisfaction filling up the chasm left by frustration and anger.

"Shut up!"

"It's only fair, though. I mean, if you don't mind _mummy_ calling you her little 'Popkin' and 'Diddykins', then I don't see why they shouldn't have the chance to call you it too."

"If you don't shut up I'll...I'll hit you!" Dudley balled his ham-sized hands into fists, knuckles cracking menacingly. It was rather like the sound of pork crackling...crackling.

"Wivvout your pwecious gang, Diddykins? You still needed them to hold your other hand when you wanted to punch that ten-year-old the other day."

"I said, shut it!" Dudley came close to screaming childishly – something he hadn't done for years**2**. "You're no so brave yourself, Potter! I've heard you at night, you keep yelling at your pillow. 'Cedric! Cedric! No, please, don't kill Cedric! Help me mum, he's gonna kill precious Cedr'-aaaaagh!" For the first time in a while, Dudley Dursley actually squealed like a pig.

Harry Potter had drawn out his wand, and levelled it at his cousin's chest.

"Stop it! I'll t-tell Dad! That madhouse will expel you if you use magic outside school!" Dudley's face and voice were clear indicators of a person clutching at desperate straws.

His word, for a few moments, appeared to strike hom. Harry hesitated, and then thought back to all those years of torture by this one person – the bitterness channelled out of him and into the ether, calling outwards like a flame to a moth.

However, even that level of negativity could not save one Anthony J Crowley from Certain Annihilation.

(_)

Crowley's feet flapped along the damp pavement, running for dear...well, not Life, exactly – but he was running to keep himself to himself. The evening had been so easy to begin with – and then the Auditors that were not Auditors had showed up.

He had been sitting in his Bentley at the time, listening to Stravinsky's "Touch my Bum". A curious phenomenon, but there it was. He had discovered that, after having been left within his car for almost a decade, all his "Best of Queen" tapes that had originally been god knew what, had now all metamorphosed into items of novelty pop songs.

He didn't particularly care for the Cheeky Girls – nor how touchable their bums were**3** – but it was better than listening to Bach's "Mr Blobby Song" for the hundredth time.

He wasn't feeling particularly happy about having to once again don the disguise he wore of the tall man with the pinched sallow face who greatly resembled the type of arachnid found within black-and-white horror films; but it had been the angel's idea. Aziraphale had found this old photo of some dead geezer called Lord Anthony Cloade and his brother Meredith – and then suggested that they use these people as disguises around Harry Potter. Why Crowley was lumped with having to be Meredith rankled – wasn't Meredith a girl's name?

Suddenly, he caught a sense of...negative energy. It wasn't overly-large, but it was certainly medium-sized, and large enough to put a dent in his demonic radar. There were two sources of it, heading his way. He stepped smartly out of the Bentley (which was parked neatly in Privet Drive, outside Number 7, where there was a party in progress) and saw two very large cowled robes floating along the street. The air seemed to grow colder - much, much colder, and ice formed across every surface wherever the...things...glided. All the lights in the street suddenly failed, even the stars and the noise of the streets beyond were plunged out of detection. The real world had been sealed off.

"Look, can't you lot give me a rest for five flippin' minutes!" Crowley yelled angrily, striding towards the apparitions, "And since when did you lot start giving off negative energy, and not be transparent, or translucent or whatever the hell it's called; and since when have you ever dressed all tattered and raggedy and started... sucking air in like dying dirigible whales...?" He slowed down, as he stared at the beings. Having sensed the demon, the Dementors geared up for attack. They had felt bitter energy radiating further along the street – but a demon was far more potent. Crowley, being a demon, was a beacon of negative energy, and the Dementors now had a limitless supply of the food they craved.

Even though he had no idea what they were, the demon could sense that they spelled Trouble.

Which was why, seconds later, he careened down Magnolia Crescent, slammed into Harry Potter and they both ended up sprawled in heaps on the floor.

Harry was winded, wasn't sure what was happening, and gasped, wishing that air could fill his lungs. His wand had skittered away as he fell – he had no idea where it was, now. All he could feel was the dead weight of the supine man crushing him. The man had simply appeared from nowhere – and now there were two Dementors greedily sucking the energy from him. Two long black streams had erupted out the man's mouth and were sucked up into the vile creatures' mouths as though they were a particularly delicious type of spaghetti.

Harry scrabbled uselessly about for his fallen wand, until he muttered "Lumos!"White light suddenly blossomed from his wand tip which was inches from his right hand. He picked it up, and examined his surroundings. Dudley was white with terror, huddled on the floor, racked with fright – presumably spread by the Dementors. One of them had sensed Dudley's fear, and decided that although it could feast on negative energy forever; a soul was a soul, and not to be sniffed at. The eternal negative energy could be returned to later...

"Dudley! Keep your mouth closed!" Harry shouted to his cousin urgently, but Dudley's soul was already beginning to stem out of him in a long pearly-white string.

Harry couldn't believe his eyes, this couldn't be happening! But it was, and if he didn't move quickly, there would be three empty soulless shells of flesh, lying in Magnolia Crescent. He tried to marshal his brain into order, tried to pull Common Sense out of the hole it had buried its head in, and most of all, tried to summon those happy thoughts that would not come. He thought of his mum and dad, he envisioned Ron and Hermione...and he thought of the day his godfather, Sirius Black was pardoned of all his supposed crimes. A silvery Patronus in the shape of a stag charged out of his wand tip and cantered towards the Dementor that was eating the soul of his cousin.

Then more Trouble happened. Six more cloaked things phased into the Universe. Harry tried to repel them with Patronuses but to no avail. The spells were simply absorbed as if nothing had happened. Harry felt the panic rise within him, felt terror grab hold of his senses and squeeze them in its giant vice of despondency.

"Leave my demon ALONE you foul monster from the nether hells!" a well-educated voice roared uncharacteristically loudly. There was a very complicated moment, in which the Dementor sucking the energy from the demon was caught in a conundrum. Should it continue to feed, or should it flee the fountain of positive energy that was approaching very, very rapidly? The fountain was very, very angry, as well.

Aziraphale stepped forwards out of the gloom, shining as if he were a lighthouse in a lonely sea. "Let there be LIGHT!" A blue-white haze of heavenly light ripped through the artificial darkness created by the Dementors and blazed like a million suns.

The Dementor shied away, releasing Crowley from its clutches. However, the angel wasn't going to let it get away quite so easily. To prevent it from leaving unpunished, Aziraphale grabbed hold of the withered, decaying arm of the beast.

Nobody has seen the death of a Dementor in living memory**4****.** A Dementor's destruction is a sight to behold and a half, it must be said. As soon as the angel touched the foul being, blue fire burst out from the centre of the creature, soon joined by a swirling vortex of lost souls, all the souls the vile being had ever consumed, spinning and wailing in the most pitiful way. The fire joined the swirling souls, as the Dementor screamed in every conceivable note on the audible and inaudible scale. The concrete in the pavement began to resonate, the glass in nearby windows smashed, car alarms started to bleep and screech wildly.

But then... Just as soon as it had begun, it was over. The Dementor was sucked up into the swirling vortex which imploded violently after exploding hard enough to knock all those standing to the ground.

Aziraphale, still disguised as Lord Anthony Cloade, helped his ward up onto his feet. "Are you feeling alright, dear boy?" The blue-white heavenly light faded as the streetlamps began to wok once more. faded

"Wow, um. Wow." Was all Harry's brain could coax his mouth to say. "A-are you a wizard?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. I'm a dab hand at making pigeons pop of my armholes, but that' about it, really." Aziraphale glanced up and gave a little shriek when he saw the six Auditors watching him. A manic gleam glazed over his azure eyes and a vein bulged horribly out of his forehead, gleaming a deep purple. "No! No! Desist, I tell you! I'm not going to wait about for you all, if that's what you think! And don't think about following me, you fiends!" The angel skittered away, leaving Harry and Dudley all alone. The other man appeared to have vanished...

Far away, they could hear the voice of the heavens cackling insanely in an inexpert fashion.

1 ZDZ: It was more of a grunt, actually.

2 ZDZ: All two of them.

3 ZDZ: Which is_ very_.

4 ZDZ: A wholly inaccurate statement. _Several_ people have seen a Dementor's demise, although none of them were in any fit state to tell the tale – it must be remembered that Dementors are rather like buses: They turn up in odd places, especially at the wrong time; they clump together, and if you miss one there's always one right behind...


	9. Chapter 7

A/N: I apologise for the shortness of this chapter. It's just a general filler, really. Enjoy :)

**Chapt'r the Seventhe**

The entirety of the psychosomaticpolymathematics of L-Space is a tricky one to get your head around if you're not a wizard or a Nocturnomath**1** (having at least four+ ancillary brains helps if you aren't magically gifted), therefore, it shall have to be broken down into smaller chunks. L-Space is a phase space that connects together all libraries. All of them. Every sort, of every type of library is linked to another one. L-Space contains all the books that there ever are, ever were, ever shall be, ever could be, and all the books in between.

That is, in essence, the nature of a phase space. To contain all the possibilities that could potentially happen. And more besides. It has often been remarked upon by some of the more pushier researchers**2**that Reality is in fact a phase space, containing all the universes that could ever be.

There have even been speculations as to whether there is a phase space specified to contain all the potential phase spaces – but as the other half of the researching community would say, that would be the whole of reality.

However, dear readers, I have digressed: it is of L-Space I wish to speak, for its role is rather important. Although L-Space connects all libraries together using the equation of knowledge = power = energy = mass; throughout the bowels of Reality, there have only ever been three libraries of books that are of such a vast volume that they are in actuality minor tracts of L-Space manifested in normal space.

These institutions are: The Library (a planet, so I am informed, that is so vast it doesn't need a name "just a great big 'The'") which housed specially-printed editions of all the known books in the known universe on one artificially-constructed planet; The city of Bookholm, located in the lost Earth continent of Zamonia, which was so crammed full of bookshops, libraries and had whole catacombs lined with bursting bookshelves that one is surprised that the city is still real enough to exist; and then there is the library of Unseen University, premier institution of magic on the Discworld.

The Library at UU doesn't adhere to the ordinary rules of Space and Time, both of which take hold of Logic, Reason and Common Sense and they all wander off for a fag and leave you to get on with it. It is staffed by wizards, and its chief librarian is _technically_ a wizard, although he is a large, sentient, hairy, orange orang-utan (And he prefers it that way. It makes navigating what looks like something from Maurice Escher's imagination _so_ much easier).

The Librarian knuckled his way out L-Space and into his own familiar library, feeling troubled. He wanted to help that nice Blonde Bookmerchant if he could. The Blonde Bookmerchant was often glad of company, it seemed, and would give the Librarian cups of tea, cocoa or even banana fritters. The Librarian had been eavesdropping there when the Second Archancellor had introduced himself and, after scenes of much denial, the Blonde Bookmerchant had accepted that the Second Archchancellor was a wizard.

It seemed that the Auditors of Reality were messing about in Roundworld again – not the University's artificially-created version of it, but a mere parallel universe of it. All the same, the Librarian felt responsible for Roundworld in a way, but he was unsure of how to stop the Auditors. He had decided that involving UU's Archancellor Mustrum Ridcully was more trouble than it was worth – so he thought he'd aid Roundworld in some small ways.

It seemed that there was to be a trial for an important wizard called Harry Potter, and so, after muttering "Ook!" to himself many times, the Librarian knew just how to save him...

(_)

Aziraphale looked as the mint editions burst into flames before his very eyes in abject horror. He gestured quickly at the writhing fires, until a wave of desert sand poured through the shop, coating everything. Albus Dumbledore waved his wand and restored everything to normal.

"There, now. I trust your doubts are quenched as much as that fire?" Dumbledore said, oblivious to the large shadow of the Librarian perched high up on a bookshelf near the ceiling.

"Oh, yes. But look here, you can't just set fire to a chap's livelihood like that!" the angel snapped most unangelically, moving quickly around the shop to check his precious books were all in order.

"Mr Fell - I apologise - Aziraphale, it is imperative that you should join my staff at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Reconciliation between magical folk and non-magical folk should take place. It is the only way to defeat Lord Voldemort and his followers if Harry fails in his task. You have lived upon this globe for millennia. My own lifespan is but a mayfly's compared to your own. Who better than to teach in my newly-created Non-Magical Studies Faculty?" Dumbledore said diplomatically, treading carefully both literally and metaphorically.

"I-I can think of one other." Aziraphale said, until he caught site of twelve Auditors surveying the drama blandly from the back of the shop. "Leave me alone, I tell you!" he screamed in a voice that suggested to the world that not all of his mind was at home. He grabbed a book at random and Frisbeed it at the hovering, dispassionate robes. The manic gleam had shaded his eyes once more and three veins pulsated a venomous purple out of his forehead. The book, by some miracle, was _Alice's Adventure's in Wonderland_ by Lewis Carroll, which caused the Auditors to perish instantly.

"Professor Dunderboar, if, _if_ I consent to work for you," the angel said, breathing deeply and speaking in the tones of one who wishes to appear calm and sane, "I do have two requests. One, that you keep the Auditors out of my hair. They're driving me potty. Two, my friend Crowley also joins your staff. He's a demon, but he's not an entirely bad chap, and he's more well-travelled than myself, so he'll be excellent at geography. We sort of...balance each other out, really. He does something bad, I thwart it, that sort of thing. And I d-do miss him, you see..." A tear welled up behind his frameless Specsavers glasses and splashed onto the floor.

(_)

1 ZDZ: See The 13/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear by Walter Moers for more details.

2 ZDZ: The sort that lurk in dungeons underneath ruined mansions or haunted castles and cackle gleefully as the lightening builds up.


	10. Chapter 8

**Chapturr thee Eighte**

Anthony J Crowley breathed a sigh of relief as Albus Dumbledore Disapparated out of his living room. This left him feeling a little peeved. He could have at least slammed the door after the wizard if he'd departed in the conventional way. Oh well, life never went quite as you'd like it, he mused as he flopped onto the black leather designer sofa. He liked his flat very much. It was large, mostly painted white and full of minimalist designer furniture. All neat straight lines and angles.

He had once flirted with the opulence of Art Deco, but it never led to anything**1**. No, for him, it was _modern_ style that mattered. Thankfully tonight he didn't have to put on all that Victorian clobber again as well as that stupid disguise, because he had been informed earlier that day by the Auditors that Harry Potter had been...taken away to a safe house.

Outside, peals of thunder rumbled across London, as rain hurtled down from the clouds; a million suicides leaping to the city below. Tonight was not a good night to be out in, especially because it had started off so mellow and balmy. Crowley was thankful that he wasn't some girl from the East End who was was in the middle of being sick on her boyfriend as they staggered home when the storm had started to brew, quarter of an hour earlier.

He picked up one of the artsy magazines that he kept on the coffee table simply because he felt that they were the sort of thing a human who owned this place would read, but tossed it back onto the sleek glass surface disconsolately. His brain was still buzzing about what had happened moments before.

(_)

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Apparated into a a sopping wet London night, and discovered that the address he was searching for was mere feet away. As powerful a wizard as he was, he had Apparated into the street and not simply into Crowley's apartment because he knew it was always unwise to try Apparate into a place you have never set foot in yourself, even if you have been given the address. Simply put, one ends up in two places at once and the results tend to be horrifically messy.

Dumbledore stepped out of the night and though the glass automatic sliding doors after unlocking them with the Alohomora charm. Dominating the middle of two-storey lobby was a square three-tiered fountain which continued to trickle 24 hours a day - it did so, not because it wanted to, but simply because it knew it would face the Wrath of Crowley it it didn't. The same thing applied with all the lifts and the lobby doors. They didn't dare break down lest they incur the Wrath of Crowley. Crowley had never been too detailed about what his Wrath entailed. He had found out long ago that the Imagination of the Victim was far more inventive than his own...

Pleasant wallpaper music drifted through the airwaves of the lobby and in all the lifts at al hours of the day too, simply because Crowley liked the Spirit of Place it lent the atmosphere.

Albus strode to the left of the fountain, ignoring the sleeping security guard at the reception desk. The desk was situated opposite the lobby doors on the other side of the fountain, and was separated from the fountain by an expansive desert of cool grey marble flooring that was occasionally given over to oases of sleek black leather chairs and coffee tables.

He departed the neutral-toned lobby and found himself in a neutral-toned lift, in which more of the pleasant music played. He swished his wand and the lift shot up to the correct floor.

He had a distinct feeling that whatever happened, the result would be...interesting...

(_)

Crowley had been rummaging in the top-of-the-range fridge, stuffing his face out of sheer boredom when the knock at the door came. He tried to shout "Bugger off! I'm not in!" Although when one's mouth is stuffed full of caviare, quail eggs, sushi and turkey nuggets this is much more difficult to achieve.

He thought briefly that perhaps it was an agent of Hell, sent to deliver a message to him – although the Auditors did most of that nowadays. He knew that any salesman who showed up at the lobby would be deported off the premises by stern men in black jackets – so who could be calling upon him at this time of night?

He crept towards his safe until he remembered that he still needed a new emergency flask of Holy Water. He sighed and decided that at least the new arrival would relieve the monotony of the evening.

He pulled open the front door and...words failed him. Briefly. "Who the hell are you?" he blurted out at the bizarre apparition.

The old man, dressed in midnight blue flowing wizard's robes, uttered calmly "Good evening. My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore. I have been, ah, liaising with some colleagues of yours and your name cropped up."

"You'd better come in." Crowley muttered. He had the feeling that if he refused, the old geezer wouldn't budge an inch.

Dumbledore pushed his half-moon spectacles up his crooked nose and swept in the apartment. "May I sit down?" the wizard gestured towards the sofa.

"Knock yourself out." The statement was not so much an invitation as a wish. The demon sat down cautiously – as far away from the newcomer as possible - at the other end.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence Dumbledore said, "Your residence is truly charming. I understand what your friend, meant, Mr Crowley; you would certainly make an ideal candidate to teach at my school."

"Come again? Me? Teach? You've gotta be joking! I'm not cut out for teaching!" Crowley's voice was laced with both confusion and indignation, with a dash of denial thrown in for good measure.

"I do beg your pardon. I have gotten ahead of myself." the old man inclined his head a little. "Sir, I am a wizard, and I wish you to teach the students at my school the ways of the non-magical world."

Crowley felt himself phase out of the conversation as Dumbledore waffled on about that Harry Potter kid, about some wannabe Dark Lord who'd clearly never met Satan before. Lucifer was known to hold no bars against anyone who dared to crown themselves Emperor of Evil.

"Do you really expect me to believe that massive pile of bullcrap? I wasn't born yesterday.**2**" Crowley was a natural sceptic. In fact, he was the _original_ sceptic. "Aziraphale might've been taken in, but it's his job to believe stuff like this. I'm gonna need proof." he hissed, with an undercurrent of menace.

(_)

It hadn't taken Dumbledore _too_ long to clear away all the fish, animal faeces, bloodstains, frogs, flies, fleas, sand, gravel, parakeets and chain-smoking go-go dancing gorillas out of the place...

(_)

Crowley snapped himself out of his reverie when he noticed the thirteen Auditors hovering around the newly-cleaned living room.

"Piss off!" he snapped and reached for something to throw at them.

_We do not understand your meaning._ The hovering translucent robes said coldly.

"Just get lost! I'm busy!" he grabbed a black-and-white striped cuboid porcelain table lamp and threw it at the floating beings.

_We know the location of every atom in the Universe. Your order is impossible._

"Then what do you want? I'm just taking a break, alright? I'll get back on with my demonic duties tomorrow."

_Your reports have become slack, lately. And we have noticed your repeated murder of countless Auditors._

"But I thought that if I killed you then you couldn't report to each other." Crowley's face contorted into one of a man who knows that if he doesn't act quickly, the hangman's noose is never far away...

_You missed me when you murdered my colleagues. I passed on my report. Hell is not pleased with you, Crowley._ A lone Auditor floated down from the ceiling and in front of the demon.

Crowley's blood-red lips parted into a bright, flashy leering grin. It was the grin of a crocodile about to close its jaws around a particularly plump fish. "Did you just say I?"

_No I didn't! _Panic writhed in the solitary Auditor's voice. _I...I...Oh damn it all to hell with you fellows!_ It screamed as it was wiped off the slate of the Universe.

_To have a personality is to live! To live is to die!_ The remaining Auditors chanted, showing no mercy for their fallen comrade-in-sleeves**3**.

"Oh yeah? Well how's this for personality?" Crowley hissed, and thumped his stereo system in way that made him want to say "Coolio!". Wild jazz music blared out of nowhere for a few seconds but began to fade from his ears. The room also felt noticeably...different...somehow. Stuffier, less...airy...

_We stationed thirty more of our kind outside the building in preparation for such an event._ (An important feature to note about Auditors is that their main strength lies in numbers. In small groups they are easy to overcome and are very weak. Large groups can manipulate Reality as easily as an artisan manipulates clay.) The Auditors' voices were crisp and detached, calm and fearless. _As you are no doubt aware, this room will shortly become a complete vacuum. Our analysis of the surrounding structure suggests that it will not survive the external pressures for longer than 10.46 seconds and counting._

Crowley could see the walls of his flat already beginning to buckle and bend now, as the room became a complete vacuum. Thank goodness demons didn't require oxygen! He suspected that the only thing holding the walls back were the Auditors of Reality. Perhaps they weren't allowed to attempt to kill him.

But, seeing as four of them were blocking the front door, this didn't seem too likely. There was only one option left open to him. The walls and ceilings groaned under the strain of keeping Mother Nature outside, they were considerably bent inwards now, almost cartoon-like. He dashed as fast as he could into the tiny saferoom which he and Aziraphale had first used to hide from the Auditors and slammed the door, only to hear an ear-splitting crashing noise that sounded suspiciously like a very large portion of an apartment complex forced by air pressure to collapse onto a single flat.

He gingerly pushed open the door (_somehow_ no rubble blocked the exit) and peered cautiously around. Where his flat had been moments before, there was now a large, empty, gash in the building which allowed cold wind and rain to lash out wildly at his face.

Okaaaaaay, so, he was gonna need to find new digs, or just stay 'on the run', as it were. Until he had to go to Hogwarts, at least. It looked as though he had no choice in the matter now. At least then he'd have a roof over his head and lots of new pastures to innovate and advance his demonic endeavours.

But in a few days, apparently, he had a hearing to attend...

(_)

1 ZDZ: Unlike the time he'd flirted with Marilyn Monroe _underneath_ the opulence of Art Deco.

2 ZDZ: This was almost a Pavlovian response. Whenever Crowley didn't pay attention to something that was said to him, he merely said those sentences on automatic whenever the speaker paused for breath. It had led to several uncomfortable situations. (Particularly one memorable incident in the British House of Commons in 1938, just after Neville Chamberlain had finished a long-winded speech proclaiming what an excellent job he'd done with his plans of appeasement. Only Winston Churchill felt inclined to agree with Crowley's sentiment.)

3 ZDZ: They didn't possess arms. This does beg the question: "Would the Auditors, in a war, have to participate in a sleeves race and use firesleeves?"


	11. Chapter 9

A/N: I apologise profoundly for not updating this story for so long, and I would like to thank everyone very much who has watched this story and how gratified I am that you have – although it's put a lot of pressure on me to try and better myself with each new chapter XD

**Chapt'r thee Nynthe**

To say Harry Potter was feeling tense on that dreadful morning before his hearing would be akin to saying that the Atlantic ocean is a little moist. His brain was awash with all kinds of terrible thoughts and visions – most of them ended up with him having his wand snapped, being expelled from Hogwarts and being carted off to live in the Middle Class Suburban Nightmare (Mark 3).

He sat with Mr Weasley on the Bakerloo Line of the London Underground, feeling utterly trapped. Not just within the dull metal box that clattered through the rat's nest of tube tunnels, but within the snares of the Ministry of Magic, and, worst of all (currently), he was trapped with Arthur Weasley.

Harry liked Mr Weasley very much - he was was, after all, a fundamentally likeable person - but Harry did _not_ like Mr Weasley when he was in the Muggle domain. Letting Arthur Weasley into the Muggle world was...well..._anybody_ who has ever walked into Toys R Us with small children who have just downed several pixie stix apiece will have a general grasp of what the situation was; apart from the fact that most children in Toys R Us are not in their late forties, wear shabby suits and wire-rimmed glasses and have a balding pate. These factors only endeavoured to worsen the situation.

Mr Weasley "ooh"ed and "aah"ed at _everything_. The escalators, the automatic ticket machines, the vending machines, the hot drinks machines, the television screens...even the devices that were out of order. "Ingenious, these Muggles!", seemed to be a favourite phrase of his.

After rising out of the bowels of London and into the sunlight, Mr Weasley led Harry down several back alleys that led behind a busy department store, where they found themselves staring at a battered and shabby red telephone box. Several panes of glass were missing, graffiti coated large swathes of the box, and the actual telephone within appeared to have been left to hang limply from a few wires after having been wrenched off its bracket by hoodlums.

"Um, I'm not sure it's going to work, Mr Weasley." Harry said uncertainly, as his guide pulled open the dilapidated door and sprang into the box, beckoning Harry to join him.

"I'm sure it will, it's the visitor's entrance to the Ministry, you see. I usually Apparate or use Floo Powder, but I think it would look better for your case if we arrived in a 'magically prohibited' fashion." Mr Weasley paused as he peered intently at the buttons. "Now, let me see... Ah yes. It's 6, 2, 4, 4, 2."**1**

The phone box descended into the Earth with a dull crunching and grinding which seemed to take an age, and Harry wondered nervously what would await him at the bottom.

(_)

Anthony J Crowley paced around the anteroom, feeling a like a caged panther. In his current disguise, he certainly looked capable of shooting one. The Honourable Meredith Cloade had been known by many animals across much of Africa and Asia as "The Nemesis of Pan".

Crowley was not alone, though. He was never alone. Three Auditors hovered in a corner near the ceiling, as if they were some species of deranged bat.

"Look, do something useful, can't you, and get me Beelzebub. Or at least one of the head honchos Downstairs. I need to check something." his voice was weary, as if he'd spent the last few days living in his car. This was true, by all accounts. Usually, if something had happened to his flat he'd impose upon the angel to give him food, warmth and a place to stay**2**.

The Auditors nodded an affirmative and, in a blizzard of paper, summoned into existence some of the most convoluted pieces of bureaucracy ever to exist with the Ministry of Magic (although with Delores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic wandering about the place, this was indeed saying something).

_Sign on every marked line._

Crowley looked at the mountain of papers that almost reached the ceiling. He had only just managed to avoid being squashed by the titanic plague by leaping towards the few inches of space beside the door. "Right, okay." he cracked his knuckles and manifested about five hundred pens into being. They all began the murderous task of signing dozens of forms all by themselves. After several minutes of this, the Auditors appeared satisfied and whisked the forms away once more.

A circle of stone floor in the centre of the room, about three feet across, started to bubble and boil in an alarming fashion. It melted and twisted, started to whizz round and round as though it was some new cross-breed of volcano-cum-whirlpool.

A figure rose up out of the soupy, magma-like froth in the same manner a pantomime demon being lifted onto the stage via a trap door gets his cape stuck halfway. In all aspects Beelzebub and the Metatron were like two peas in a very disagreeable pod. They looked almost identical, although Beelzebub tended to prefer red and black rather than gold, white and blue; and he always wore a frown.

"**Why hazzzt thou summoned me, Crowzzzley?"** Hell's #2 boomed into the tiny room, creating enough noise to cause several flakes of plaster to wave goodbye to their fellows and jump onto the smaller demon's head.

"Nothing really major." Crowley said cheerily, removing Meredith Cloade's top hat and shaking the plaster dust off, before replacing it again. "Just wanted to check up on a few points. Um, if a demon is a witness in a trial, does he _always_ have to commit perjury?"

"**Yezzzz. Otherwizze he art not a daemon."**

A polite cough from the corner alerted the larger demon to the presence of the Auditors of Reality. _That is not strictly true. A demon may tell the truth in a courtroom if they are likely to give evidence that is unhelpful to the prisoner in the dock. However,_ (and upon these words a small stack of papers materialised onto the floor at Beelzebub's feet) _according to Paragraph , Subsection mlcviii) Amendment 3,267.444576; a demon may be allowed to speak the truth within a courtroom in order to defend the subject within the dock if the defence of such a person lies within the best interests of Hell and/or notwithstanding, in a any way, form or shape, hinders the interests relating (no matter how indirect) to Heaven. _The Auditors said coolly, and stared at the demons in a way that made the Arctic Circle seem just the place for a nice sunbathe.

Hell's #2 said nothing further and vanished back into the ground in a sort of reverse of the way he had arrived, without even saying anything in the nature of "goodbye". It made sense, of course. Demons were not meant to be polite to other demons. If people started being nice to each other irresponsibly Down There, Satan may as well throw in the towel.

Behind him there was a quiet noise that was nothing than a quiet _voooooom!_

Crowley's feelings about this familiar sound were mixed. He slowly turned around and looked at the man standing before him.

The newcomer was dressed in a midnight blue tailcoat, navy blue trousers, a white shirt with stiff starched collar (around the collar was a robin's egg blue silk cravat), and a silver silk waistcoat (with blue stripes). However, something was decidedly...different. He now appeared to be some form of...cat-person... His body was still shaped in a human form, but there a definite _catness_ about it. For one thing, he was no longer wearing shoes, because none could be manufactured for his digitigrade feet; and he instead resorted to wearing light grey spats.

The young man's fur was pale, incredibly pale, it was the colour of chalk (save around the eyes, the fur there was dark grey, almost black). His hair, that was arranged tastefully in a neat side-parting, was so black that it appeared to have been held back with shoe polish. He had his back turned and seemed to be staring at something on his left forearm. Suddenly, after scratching his head in disbelief and looking totally preoccupied, he said:

"Now, my dear Mr Holmes, if you be so good as to take this... Mycroft? Mycroft? Oh, never mind, you take it and pass it on to him, will you? I'm sure his brother will be able to find some excuse to lock it away and never use it again." the man said and thrust what looked like the type of futuristic ray-gun favoured by Steampunk enthusiasts into Crowley's fingers. It was a gem of engineering, and above all it Looked The Part: plenty of brass and copper had been incorporated into its manufacture and had several little useful-looking handles and buttons (as well as lots of useless decorative cogs etched into it).

The young man, whom Crowley now recognised, was staring at him very hard. Then he proceeded to take in the surroundings. "Hmmmmm. Something tells me this is _not _the_ Diogenes Club_." he pulled out a shining brass pocket watch from his waistcoat and opened it. "And it's _not _1904, either." Hmmmm. So why're you here, Meredith Cloade?" Before Crowley could say a word, his dark glasses had been whipped away from his face.

Within those sparkling emerald eyes that stared into his own, twinkled an extra special gleam, the gleam of a man in the presence of an old acquaintance.

The cattish lips parted and stretched into a wide, accommodating grin, as his arms stretched into a friendly embrace. "Well, well, well... If it isn't my old pal Alistair!"

Before the demon could say a word he found himself enfolded into a fraternal bear hug. "Don't call me that!" he half-whined**3**. He hated the nickname almost as much as Marmite.

"You know you love it." said the man winking cheekily. "So, what's old Anthony J Crowley doing in this neck of the woods?"

Crowley sighed. As much as he liked having Nostradamus around, he had no patience on today of all days. "How did you know it was me and not 'Zira? I know you're dying to tell me."

"Very simple, really. It was the eyes. For all your aptitude at changing shape, neither of you can get the eyes right. Meredith Cloade had rather dull grey steely ones, whereas those are your own bright piercing yellow ones. A little bit catlike and with a hint of ruthlessness in them. You know, they still look the same since we last met iiiiin..." he paused, his face became thoughtful as he struggled to recollect.

"1971, Las Vegas, we both woke up in a king-sized bed with king-sized hangovers, completely starker and with about ten showgirls, 2 female croupiers and a male 45-year-old Latino janitor to whom you gave Aziraphale's name and phone number." Crowley grinned as he saw the discomfort suck the smile off the other's face in the same manner in which a weasel sucks an egg.

"Ah. So _that's_ what it was I'd forgotten. Now I know why." Nostradamus looked decidedly ashamed of himself, as the memories of the sordid venture crawled out from under the haze of alcohol. "_Not_ my finest hour, really."

"That's what she said." Crowley murmured.

"And I do feel guilty about giving that man 'Zira's phone number." Nostradamus prattled on, unaware, "I mean, the poor angel must've been driven completely round the twist!" They both started to laugh, picturing Aziraphale attempting valiantly to ward off droves of horny, middle-aged janitors.

As they sobered up, Crowley's natural inquisitiveness returned to him. "So uh...what happened to you...? Why do you look like a cat now?"

The question was waved away with a hand that was white-furred and definitely more paw-like than when the demon had last seen it4. "It's rather a long narrative involving lots of complicated things and I find myself as a mere zombie again."

Crowley's brain processed this information quietly, and, after resolving not to delve too far into the convoluted machinations of Nostradamus's habit of changing life states more frequently than a suicidal reincarnationist monk, decided to have another stab in a different direction.

"Okay, why _are_ you here? I know you, Nos. You watch far too much Doctor Who, and like to play at your James Bond fantasies. You always try and meddle in stuff, so what're gonna meddle with this time?" he glared through his own eyes with his borrowed forehead pulled down low into a horrible leering frown.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. It's just that when I checked my watch just now, I saw the date and realised that given this day is an important historical event, I can't very well stand idly by and let you two stick your oars in. So, I can't take chances." Nostradamus had started calmly walking towards the demon with an expression of innocent complacency on his face. Crowley knew from experience that a person with that expression usually means more harm than good. He'd invented the technique, after all.

It happened so quickly, that even to Crowley's enhanced senses, it was all but a blur. The other's arm whipped out as a snake leaps at its prey; and, like a snake, Crowley experienced what felt like a long, thin, fang piece the skin of his neck. Then the pain went away.

In his hand Nostradamus was holding a large syringe, that had been emptied of its contents.

"What the heaven was that for?" the demon half-yelled, rubbing his neck, wishing the wound to heal.

"Just a little touch of Klatchian coffee to sober you up. I know how you and the angel enjoy getting whammed before you have to do anything strenuous. Oh, and by the way, _don't _try to get rid of it. It contains a few trace elements of holy water. Not enough to erase you from existence, but enough to make you very ill for the next 457 hours if you try to do anything to the coffee..."

"God, I hate you sometimes, I really do."

"Hate, love, it's all the same. Life is philosophy, and lateral thinking is the key... Just...something for you to chew over. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an angel to speak to. Good day..." And with that unnecessarily lengthy parting speech, Crowley's problem walked smack into the wall. "Ow...ooh I really ought to remember I'm solid..." He touched a button on the metallic armband on his left forearm and vanished into the adjoining room with another _voooooom! i_n a haze of pixellation.

On the floor lay a small pocket manual with a sepia photograph of the ray-gun printed on the front cover. The demon supposed it had fallen out of Nostradamus's pocket when he had unleashed his syringe-attack.

He picked it up, and briefly examined the swirly letters proclaiming "Dr Gustav Uppenheimer's Magnificent _Quantum Hyperioncomposamatrix_" to be 'the most efficient feat of sub-atomic engineering since re-spliced bread' before hastily shoving into a pocket of the tailcoat he was 'borrowing'.

(_)

Harry left Mr Weasley at the entrance as he walked on legs made of chewing gum on a floor that appeared to be a large bowl of porridge on a ship in a storm. It was, in actual fact, a large geometrically tiled one, that opened out onto a large, lozenge-shaped chamber around which were several tiers of benches and galleries. These were mostly occupied by witches and wizards, all of whom were robed in robes of a deep midnight blue, and all had a tiny golden "W" on the left breast of the uniform.

In the centre of the floor sat a high-backed throne-like chair, which Harry assumed was the dock, for it faced a high desk at which sat the Minister for Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge. Fudge, the complete moron who had been spending the summer telling the wizarding world that Dumbledore was going off his rocker and Harry was some attention-seeking prat.

Harry assumed it was alright to sit down, and did so, wondering what was going to happen to him.

"You admit to being the person of Harry James Potter, of Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Winging, Surrey?" Fudge said, in a tone that arrived in Harry's ears covered in sharp icicles.

"Yes."

"You are aware that you have been summoned here for the charge of knowingly and deliberately casting a Patronus protection charm on the night of August the 12th of this year?"

Yes." Harry repeated. He hadn't expected it to be like this. He hoped it wouldn't continue in this fashion, it did grate on the nerves after a while.

"Then we may commence. Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic; Amelia Bones, Head of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister -"

"Council for the Defence, Mr Arbuthnot 'Sideways' Slant, of _Messrs Morecombe, Slant & Honeyplace_, Ankh-Morpork and President of the Guild of Lawyers; and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." said a dry and dusty voice that Harry didn't recognise, but he felt a ray of hope shine upon him as heard the mention of Dumbledore. At least if he was going to go down, he'd be able to go down with certain style.

Before he could concentrate on this thought, however, Fudge gave an almighty squeal of alarm, and jogged the table so violently that he overturned several ink bottles.

The Minister had seen the two newcomers entering the chamber. One was dressed in his customary flowing robes and velvet hat of Middle Eastern design, and the other was impeccably dressed in a black three-piece suit, (the sort one is usually buried in) over which he was wearing the ceremonial barrister's long black robe; and the ceremonial barrister's ponytail powdered wig that were traditional in United Kingdom courtrooms. The second man's skin was very grey, and almost black around his staring eyes. His face and hands were intersected by several neat scars apiece (that been stitched up very recently, it seemed). On his head, poking out from under the fringe of his wig very untidily was a very scruffy mop of grey-white hair, that looked like an elderly feather duster that been exhumed especially for the occasion.

A rather corpulent witch who resembled a toad stuffed into her robes, with a hideous pink bow in her mousy brown hair, sitting on Fudge's immediate right, raised her hand.

"_Hem hem_. I'm sorry? I must have misheard you. It sounded as if you said you were from a place called Ankh-Morpork. There is no such place in Britain. Are you a foreigner?" Her voice was disgustingly light and breathy, and far too honeyed to be real; but Harry noticed that she pronounced the word 'foreigner' with the same undertones that one might use to speak of cockroaches or the contents of one's lavatory.

"I am, to put it plainly, ladies and gentleman, a zombie. As his worship presiding over the proceeding has evidently noticed rather more...forcibly than yourselves." Mr Slant indulged in a small smile of satisfaction as he saw Fudge attempting to mop up the mess.

"There is no spell that can reawaken the dead!" Fudge snapped, looking down from his lofty perch at the lawyer.

"That you know of. Evidently you have never been to the Unseen University. However, these matters are somewhat trivial. The only relevant facts are those of my client's case, which, if I am not much mistaken, your worship, is very sound. Let us continue. I am sure that none of us here appreciate time being lavishly spent on such games as this."

Harry noticed that Dumbledore was...not smiling, exactly, at Mr Slant; but there was a definite suggestion of approval in the gleaming blue eyes. It seemed that the zombie was using his own condition to his advantage, and by making Fudge angry, he could be sure that Fudge would put his foot in it sooner or later...

"Ankh-Morpork is a small market town in the Lake District," Dumbledore said cheerfully, to alleviate the argument.

"Yes, yes, yes! Now, on with the proceedings!" Fudge yelled as if he was once again 4 years old and screaming at his mother to buy him a toy broomstick**5**. He took a moment to calm down, and continued in a voice that was struggling to remain smooth, "You have admitted to being Harry James Potter and of casting a Patronus charm. The fact that you had already received a warning for producing a hovering charm three years previously did not deter you in the slightest from deliberately committing anoth-"

"Objection, your honour." Mr Slant cut him off quickly, "The law of Her Majesty's United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland clearly states that all judges and juries must, whenever in the courtroom, to the best of their abilities, shun all and any prejudices they may have, and to be as impartial as they are able, in order to uphold, unequivocally and fairly, the statutes of the realm. You are a Minister of the Crown, even if you do not know it, and as such, are committed by law to uphold these standards. You are not permitted to knowingly slander the Defendant."

Fudge's jaw dropped six feet as his brain tried to process this verbal barrage. "The fact remains," the Minister ploughed on, trying to ignore the zombie's granite stare, "That Mr Potter here is under the age of seventeen and produced a full-fledged Patronus in an area full of Muggles, _and_ in the presence of a Muggle no less!"

A squat witch with a rather angular jawline and a monocle suddenly looked at Harry, rather than her notes, and boomed in a deep alto, "You produced a full-fledged Patronus?"

"Yes." Harry said quickly.

"A corporeal Patronus?"

"A what?" Harry asked, unsure of what she was driving at.

"A Patronus that wasn't just vapour, one which had a clear shape?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah it was. It was a stag. It's always a stag."

"Always? Do you mean to say that you've produced a Patronus before?" Madam Bones raised her eyebrows so much that she had to screw her monocle back in. "Impressive, most impressive at his age."

"That is beside the point!" Fudge yelled impatiently. "In fact, if it was impressive this only strengthens the case against him. He cast this charm in plain sight of a Muggle."

"Excuse me, your worship, but I would like to draw your attention towards the law of _Cargo Abornum Familitat_. A major factor of my client's case is that the non-magical person in front of which he cast the offending spell, was in fact his own cousin, Dudley Dursley, who was well aware that Harry Potter is a wizard. Therefore -" Mr Slant droned, before being brusquely cut short.

"_Hem hem._ If I might interject, Mr Slant? Whilst there is no doubt that the Muggle is in fact Harry's cousin, I am afraid that the law you quote is somewhat out of date." The toadlike woman called Umbridge had raised her hand once more. Her voice was syrupy-sweet, and to hear it would almost certainly put one off sweets for ten years.

"Out of date or not, my dear Madam Undersecretary, the question remains: why would Harry cast a Patronus charm if it was not an act of self defence? Of all the spells there are to cast, there are many that would be beneficial to Harry. Casting a Patronus is, as Madam Bones kindly pointed out, difficult magic. Quite why Harry would choose to randomly produce a difficult and...noticeable...spell within plain view for no apparent reason is beyond me." Dumbledore's voice was as polite and gracious as ever, although Harry could sense the quiet authority that lurked within.

"Honestly Dumbledore, why the boy does anything or not is beyond me. The fact remains: he did indeed cast the Patronus, he admitted doing so!" Fudge said, loudly, as if by repetition and wilful thinking he could have Harry behind bars.

"I did it because of the Dementors!" Harry blurted out at last, fed up with being talked about as if he wasn't in the room.

Fudge's face lit up as he grinned nastily. "Yes, very clever, very clever. Dementors can't be seen by Muggles, can they? So, you thought it would make a nice little cover story. Casting a spell in front of Muggles and no witnesses, very neat and tidy..." Harry could detect the smugness in the Minister's voice. It was akin to watching Piers Morgan on Prozac. All he wanted to do right now was to punch Fudge very hard right in the solar plexus.

"Your worship, we do in fact have three witnesses." Mr Slant said coolly. He coughed, and a moth fluttered out of his mouth, along with several handfuls of dust. The moth flew up towards Umbridge and settled on her hideous pink bow. Harry wasn't sure if she was going to swat it, or flick out a long sticky tongue and catch it. She quickly trapped it in her handkerchief (of a hue that would put peonies to shame) and put it into a pocket of her fluffy pink cardigan.

Harry wondered who the other two witnesses were. He knew that batty old Mrs Figg was actually a squib working for Dumbledore, but surely the other two men were Muggles? Or were they...?

"I call to the stand, Mrs Arabella Doreen Figg!" boomed Mr Slant.

Harry vacated the chair as Mrs Figg was called in. After giving her name and address, she was asked by Madam Bones, (who seemed to Harry to be the only really impartial witch in the Wizengamot,) what had taken place.

"Well, I was coming back from the corner shop -" Mrs Figg started, in a thin, nervous voice. She had been cut off by Fudge.

"We weren't aware that there were any other witches or wizards living in the area besides the accused." The Minister said, looking towards the witch called Umbridge for support.

"I'm a squib, so you wouldn't have me registered, would you?" Mrs Figg said, a pink flush of indignation alighting on her cheeks.

Harry, being too preoccupied with his own fate to notice, didn't see the expression of malice that had appeared on Umbridge's visage when the word 'squib' came in to play. Mr Slant and the Headmaster on the other hand, did.

"W-well, anyway, I was coming home from the corner shop with my cat meat, when I saw two boys in the street. One was quite skinny, and the other was very large." Mrs Figg carried on, trying to keep the stutters of fear out of her voice. "Then a man came running down the street."

"A man? What man?" Madam Bones boomed from her perch as though she were a demented eagle owl. With her monocle screwed in, magnifying one eye rather more than the other, she certainly looked like one.

"A man all done up like a dog's dinner in morning dress. Top hat, tails and white spats, I think. Two Dementors were running after him."

"Running? Dementors don't run, they glide, surely?"

"Yes, w-well, that's what I meant... They were all big, and wearing cloaks."

Harry could feel the little bubble of hope that had arisen within his chest deflating rapidly. It sounded as though Mrs Figg had never seen a Dementor before in her life.

"And then, the man ran into young Harry here, and they fell to the floor. Then, the Dementors started kissing the man...it was horrible... Harry managed to pick up his wand and cast the Patronus when another man came along. He shouted something like 'hands off him, you demons' and then that famous quote from the Bible for some reason, and then grabbed a Dementor. They seemed to be all frightened of him. Then the Dementor he'd grabbed sort of...went all swirly like a Catherine wheel and fizzled out like..." Mrs Figg struggled to find a comparison.

"Thank you, Mrs Figg, you may go." Dumbledore said kindly.

Mrs Figg shuffled out of the courtroom, looking very much harassed.

"So, it seems there were in fact Dementors in Little Whinging after all," Dumbledore said, looking up at the Minister.

"Oh for heaven's sake Dumbledore! How likely is it that Dementors would wander into a Muggle suburb and happen to chance across a wizard?" Fudge snapped, his temper rising.

"37.6% likely, your worship." Mr Slant murmured.

"Ah, but we do have two more witnesses," Dumbledore said, ignoring the zombie's interjection, although with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, making his silver moustache twitch.

"I call his Lordship, Anthony Cloade, 4th Marquess of Derrington-on-Sea!" shouted the lawyer.

'His Lordship' was sent in immediately. Aziraphale, still rubbing his neck after being injected with Klatchian coffee, sat down with great feelings of trepidation, in The Chair. He couldn't help feeling he was on the TV show _Mastermind_ all over again.

"You are Lord Anthony Cloade, of Number 42, Park Lane?" Mr Slant inquired, his grey eyes boring in the angel's own pastel-blue ones. Like Crowley, the angel wasn't good at disguising his baby-blues.

"Chosen Subject: Historical bibles and selected classical bibliography." Aziraphale said automatically. A pregnant silence fell into the room. It was broken once more by the zombie.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, I am he. Yes, quite so." Aziraphale stumbled over his words, as if he was dancing on ice with blunt skates and a cup of scalding pitch balanced on his head.

"Are you a squib as well? We don't have you registered in the Greater London area." Madame Bones said rather bluntly.

'Lord Cloade' suddenly looked highly offended. A haughty expression that would have been greatly admired by the real Lord Cloade appeared on his borrowed face. "There's no need to adopt that choice of words! This is the 21st Century! My sexuality has nothing whatsoever to do with anything in here! Alright, so perhaps Kenneth Williams and I once had a few bottles too many of Château la Fête back in 1974, but I can tell you now he only admired me for the size of my tomes!"

"My dear fellow, they are enquiring whether or not you are of wizarding parentage but have no magical powers of your own." Dumbledore came to his aid with a soothing voice and calming hand laid upon the distressed angel's shoulder.

"Oh. Well, then no, I am not a squib, and I'm not a wizard either, if it comes to that." A slightly stunned silence fell about the courtroom. But only briefly. After all, many Muggles had been brought into St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries before. They had all been promptly mind-wiped afterwards...

"My lord, would you care to tell us, in your own words, what happened on the night in question?" Mr Slant said, coughing out another few lungfuls of dust.

Aziraphale looked suddenly uncomfortable. He'd been dreading this day. Angels are supposed to tell the truth, no matter what, as far as possible; but Aziraphale wasn't sure how to tell the truth to these wizards without revealing everything.

"Um...well, you see, I was...in the area, making sure that...my client came to no harm. I have been assigned to protect a certain member of the community, and after...conversing with my superiors, I noticed m-my brother...yes, my brother Meredith...being attacked by two great big cloaked things that were...sucking the lifeblood not only out of him...but the environment. I heard...noises...inside my head. And such visions...such dreadful visions..." Aziraphale's face clouded over with a look of pure pain and terror. "The sirens...the bombs dropping...falling, falling falling, falling towards people...men yelling, women screaming, children wailing, flames leaping, licking, frying, burning, buildings crumble, ashes tumble, bells ring out...and there am I...unable to help, _forbidden_ to do anything...free to watch all the pain and misery and suffering..." As he spoke, on the edges of hearing, came the sounds and noises as he described them. For one moment, everybody felt a small fraction of that feeling deep within themselves...and then it was dispersed. Aziraphale shuddered and tried to remember who he was supposed to be. "And then...I um...I shouted 'Leave my demon ALONE you foul monster from the nether hells!' and then -"

"-Why would you shout that? Calling someone a demon is a strange thing to do." The Minister said abruptly.

"I-I..he's my brother you see...and so...my pet name for him is that he's a demon, you see." Even to Aziraphale the story sounded feeble. Fudge scribbled a note down and waved a hand to the angel that he should continue.

"I grabbed hold of one of those foul creatures and..I'm not at all sure how to describe it. It rather reminds me of the opening credits in Doctor Who, when the TARDIS is travelling through the Time Vortex with all the spinning lights and flashes of colour." Aziraphale paused when he saw blank looks on the faces of most people within the courtroom, and then ploughed on before he lost his nerve. "The..thing I grabbed went like that and seemed to die. Then I asked if Harry was alright and I managed to...to...to take my brother off to a safe place." This last sentence was of course a complete fabrication**6**.

"Thank you, my lord, you may stand down." Mr Slant said dryly, with a slight cough. The lawyer coughed again, in a meaningful way. Small flurries of dust trickled down to the floor.

Professor Dumbledore placed a gentle hand on the angel's shoulder. Aziraphale was staring into space, with a familiar maniacal gleam hazing over his azure eyes. He was staring at a point high up, near the vaulted ceiling where, if one looked very hard, several shadows seemed to be slightly darker than they ought to be.

"Your Lordship, you may vacate the seat." Dumbledore's voice was soothing, as if from a shepherd to a demented sheep that had strayed into the forest and grazed upon peculiar mushrooms.

Aziraphale's only response was to remove his top hat and Frisbee it wildly into the shadows. Mid-flight, there only a slight increase in volume in the _wheeeeesh_ noise that suggested that the hat had ceased to be harmless and had now become a weapon on par with that of Oddjob's.

He could only wonder what on Earth his old friend Crowley would say...

(_)

1 ZDZ: There have been rumours that the maintenance staff alter the code to say: 7477-633-968-9265377 on every April Fool's Day – however, such a sentence is illogical. To perform the actions described are physically impossible and...er...rather messy for men – and even more messy and embarrassing for women – not that I am in any way a chauvinist, I am simply stating a mere fact of biology – if any Feminists wish to argue about it, they are perfectly free to walk into any church and take up a case with God (or if He's out, they can call the Vatican or the Archbishop of Canterbury and ask to make an appointment).

2 ZDZ: Not that Crowley actually _needed_ any of those things – he just enjoyed depriving Aziraphale of them. Misery loves company.

3 ZDZ: Even though demons _are_ supposed to be negative, they aren't allowed to whine. Whining is for angels, even if demons hail from angel stock.

4 ZDZ: Of course, the infinitely more...searching...question is _where_ Crowley had last seen it.

5 ZDZ: Fudge was always chubby, even at that tender age, and as such, managed to get through no less than ten toy broomsticks, all on their maiden voyages. If Fudge had been present aboard the RMS Titanic, it wouldn't have even made the journey out of Liverpool Harbour.

6 ZDZ: But so are many things. Vacuum cleaners, the belief that there is such a thing as Civilisation, the cheese in ready-made sandwiches found in supermarkets, Paris Hilton's face, and so on and so forth...


	12. Chapter 10

**Chaptur the Tenthe**

Anthony J Crowley swaggered into the courtroom with an easy grace that did not suit his borrowed form in any way. Meredith Cloade had never had any sense of style. He couldn't have touched it with a 40 ft bargepole, even if he'd wanted to. The demon found himself being surveyed by over 100 pairs of eyes and so thus attempted to decrease his speed and increase his swaggering, before eventfully arriving at The Chair. He flopped into it and swung himself around so that his long legs hung over one arm. He gazed at the opposite wall for a few seconds before glancing at the sea of faces staring down upon him. He waved a long, insect-like hand at them and said lazily, "Oh carry on, you lot. Don't mind me."

Silence thundered across the hall until a rather ashen-faced barrister coughed wheezily, expelling centuries-old dust onto Crowley's shoes.

"If you could tell us in your own words sir, where you were on the night the accused was alleged to have performed the Patronus Charm?"

Crowley blinked and seemed to ponder. "Well, I was on my way back from a WI meeting -"

"_Hem hem._ What is a WI meeting?" inquired a girlish voice from the front desk. Crowley goggled at her, and then at Fudge.

"Woah. My mum always said you can tell a person's trustworthiness from their size; so you two must be very honest people."

Fudge started to splutter as though he were an elderly Ford Prefect with a squeaky tire, whilst Umbridge mere glared down upon Crowley as if her were a particularly irksome mayfly.

Harry Potter, seated on a bench at the side of the hall, could detect a small flicker of a smile on Albus Dumbledore's mouth.

"WI is the Women's Insitute. Anyway, I was on my way back from there, and then I slipped on an icy patch." Crowley's borrowed tongue lied smoothly, enjoying the displeasure of the Minister and his Senior Undersecretary.

"An icy patch? In the middle of August?" Madam Bones, noticing the temporary incapacitation of her fellow interrogators, picked up the slack (although in both cases, neither Fudge nor Umbridge possessed all that much slack to pick up).

"I am given to understand that Dementors create an aura of ice around themselves as well as the nature of hopeless disparity1, despite the given temperature of any locality." Mr Slant muttered, before whirling around towards the lounging demon; his powdered wig spraying loose powder about him in a small undignified cloud. "Proceed, your honour."

"Well, I guess that's about it. I slipped on an icy patch, and after seeing these bloody great floating cloak things; the next thing I know I'm in the Downstairs Waiting Room." He suddenly realised he'd let slip and Told The Truth. In front of three Auditors of Reality, no less. He was by no means an entirely cowardly person, but he could feel the judging stares of the empty robes and the imaginary notes they would be sending back to Hell with all due speed.

"Waiting room?" Madam Bones chimed in. Crowley was feeling rattled. Most humans weren't usually this attentive to anything he had to say, unless it was a pick-up line.

"What waiting room?" Fudge hooted, trying his best to look imperious and domineering after his spate of fury, but instead merely achieved the effect of a rather overweight individual who had recently consumed a liquid lunch that had not only disagreed with him going down, but was now having a momentous argument with his bowels.

"That is not a relevant factor in my client's case, your worship. In accordance with _Relevio Daetritius Maleficium_, the jury is now required to cast a vote upon the innocence or guilt of the defendant." Mr Slant's wheezing monotone delivered from somewhere beyond Crowley's left ear.

"All those in favour of guilt, raise your hand." Madam Bones intoned.

Many witches and wizards of the Wizenagamot raised their hands, including Umbridge and the Minister. Fudge was looking more smug and self-satisfied with each passing second.

"All those in favour of innocence, raise your hand."

Harry Potter's heart suddenly leaped, as a forest of hands rose into the air. Some with confidence like Madam Bones, some with an air of trepidation. He attempted to count them, but he gave up, as he saw that at least just over half of them were raised.

Fudge looked as though he had just been struck in the face by a heavy object2. Umbridge continued to stare at Crowley with an intense cold anger.

(_)

In an anteroom, off the main body of the courtroom, stood a tall mahogany bookcase, which was being studied with great interest by the angel Aziraphale and an enormous adult male orang-utan. Three Auditors hovered patiently in single file, along one wall.

The door creaked open in the manner of a coffin lid, and Mr Slant lurched in, holding his casenotes. He glanced briefly towards the angel and the Auditors before directing his attention to the Librarian of Unseen University with a severe Look.

"Return me to Ankh-Morpork at once, whereupon I shall be forced to inform Commander Vimes of the City Watch, the Patrician, and the Archancellor of the University of my abduction."

The ape bared yellowing teeth and gave a defiant."Ook!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"He says that he shan't return you if you carry on in this manner." the angel chipped in, before withering under the chilling glare from the dead eyes.

"Very well. I shall call upon these Inspectors of the Universe-"

"-Auditors-" muttered Aziraphale.

"-and they shall return me. For a fee, I imagine."

_The sum would be AM$5,000 in gold standard._ The memories of speech whispered from the cowled translucent robes.

Mr Slant glared at them, straight into the empty space where eyes would be in the middle Auditor's hood. He opened his mouth to speak, but the robes beat him to it.

_The laws of nature require that one cannot gain something for nothing. A conversion of mass must be initiated. From your bank account. _ There was the faintest hint of malicious glee in the voices of the Auditors.

"Very well." although the zombie always felt weak at the knees, he was feeling particular feeble today. He straightened himself as best as he was able, and turned once more to the Librarian, and sternly stated: "I shall inform the Archancellor of the University of your gross misconduct and, after considering your further non-cooperation, will instruct him to transform you back into your human state3, Dr Horace -"

"Eeek! Ook ook! Ooooooook!" The Librarian began jumping up and down frantically, and pounded the floor with his fists.

Slant needed no translation this time. "If you return me now, I shall say no more about it." he paused for a moment. "..Although if you do not fix me a portal to the Old Bailey so I can take a holiday to this...most interesting place whenever the fancy takes hold of me...I shall send a most strongly-worded note to Mustrum literally post-haste. I think I should rather enjoy doing an alternative form of legal battle in this world as an occasional treat."

After a glance at the Auditors and shaking Aziraphale by the hand, the zombie lurched into the L-Space portal in the bookcase created by the Librarian who was leading him rather grumpily, muttering dire "oooook"s under his breath.

(_)

Some days later, after September had arrived, bringing with it the first slight chills of Autumn, a black 1926 Bentley sped past King's Cross Station at a far greater speed than was officially allowed in London. Inside it it, and grinning at finally being rid of that accursed disguise as Meredith Cloade once and for all, Anthony J Crowley hummed to himself as the Bentley whooshed through a large puddle. Whether by coincidence or whether someone Up Above or Down Below has a sense of Fun4 Aziraphale had himself been walking along the pavement through the grey September morning, and had reached the puddle at exactly the same moment the demon had.

He clambered up the steps, dragging his wheeled suitcase behind him, sopping wet and muttering to himself. He fished a now soggy note out of a damp knee-length donkey jacket-esque overcoat and read the instructions. Apparently to get to this platform 9 ¾ he had to step through the barrier between platforms 9 and 10.

After buying himself a polystyrene cup of watery hot chocolate that contained the same amount of chocolate as a pound of Cheddar's finest, matured dairy produce, the angel steeled himself and stepped though the barrier...

(_)

Harry Potter could not help feeling a sense of loss. Although he was happy for his two best friends being given their prefect duties and the privileges forthwith, he had never travelled on the Hogwarts Express without them. After idly mooning about, trying to find an empty compartment, he stumbled into Ginny Weasley, Ron's younger sister in the year below Harry, and Harry's fellow classmate Neville Longbottom. Neville was clutching what appeared to be some form of hideous mutated cactus in one arm and his escapist toad, Trevor. Harry was of the opinion that Trevor really ought to be renamed Houdini, although h never said as much to his friend.

"I've looked, but every where's full." Neville complained as the train picked up speed, rushing past houses, turning them into a multi-coloured a blur.

"Oh look, there's space in this compartment." Ginny said, with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

Harry caught her eye and they both grinned. In the compartment were seated two people, both by the window, on opposite seats. One was a girl about Ginny's age with waist-length dirty-blonde hair and seemed to be reading a magazine upside-down.

The other was a man who appeared to be in his late twenties, although it was difficult to tell because he had placed a white handkerchief over his face. He had blonde hair that had been arranged in a neat centre-parting, although had now tried to rebel against the style after the dousing earlier. He was dressed in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, crisp white shirt and a deep ocean blue silk tie arranged in a double-Windsor knot, light grey trousers and well-worn yet highly-maintained brown leather shoes. On the luggage rack above his head was a rather modern-looking wheeled Muggle travelling case, and a neatly folded, and rather damp, donkey jacket overcoat.

On his lap sat, not a copy of _The Daily Prophet_, the wizarding world's leading newspaper, but a copy of one of the leading Muggle newspapers _The Times_. It was open on the page of the crossword5 and the man had evidently been filling it in before deciding that a snooze would be a better option. Harry thought that the man might have been an Oxford professor who had absent-mindedly boarded the wrong train. He snored peacefully, and the handkerchief rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic way.

Harry felt a sense of a deja-vu, and wondered if any Dementors would try to board the train again, two years after their last search.

After heaving his own trunk and his pet owl Hedwig's cage into the luggage rack next to the sleeping gentleman's, Harry aided Neville and Ginny into stowing their belonging beside the girl's, before settling down into a seat.

"Harry, Neville this is Loon- ahem, Luna, Lovegood." Ginny said briskly. The girl lowered her magazine and stared at everyone (except for the sleeping man) through rather wide eyes that matched the colour of the sleeping gentleman's tie.

"Hello Ginny. Did you have a good summer?" she asked in an ethereal and dreamlike Irish-tinted voice that seemed to be curiously detached from the rest of her.

"Yes thanks Luna. How was yours?"

"Oh it was fine. My dad took me down to the West Country and we went searching for Squerchmumblers on Bodmin Moor and Dartmoor. It was quite enjoyable."

Although Harry wasn't sure if he imagined it or not, the snoring man seemed to inhale his handkerchief slightly on the word " Squerchmumblers". Luna seemed to dreamily stare at Harry for a while as though studying him through a sheet of rippling water and said eventually, "You're Harry Potter. Who are you?" She asked suddenly asked Neville.

Neville, after squeaking slightly, mumbled something about not being anyone in particular.

Ginny formally introduced him and, after a quick game of exploding snap (which didn't appear wake up the gentleman at all) the sweet trolley came around.

"Anything from the trolley dears?" the kindly old woman said, her face and eyes twinkling merrily in a manner reminiscent of Mr Pickwick's. Her selection of assorted sweetmeats, chocolates, pumpkin pasties and sandwiches certainly looked inviting.

It was at this point the snoozing gentleman appeared to wake up. He swiped the handerchief off his face and peered out of the world through modern rectangular frameless Specsaver's free-on-the-NHS £75 spectacles. Harry realised his guess of age had been mostly correct, and the man did indeed appear to be in his late twenties, although at a second glance he almost seemed to be rather older, at the same time. His benign face and kindly azure eyes seemed to briefly fill the compartment with a sense of hope and happiness.

"Hmmm. Trolley yes, my good woman, yes. Food sounds like an excellent idea." Aziraphale murmured sleepily and lumbered over to the compartment door to see what was available. "Oh, I think I'll have.. a packet of the jelly beans and some chocolate frogs, and...what's that? _Pumpkin_ pasty? It sounds most revolting but I may as well have a try."

The trolley witch seemed slightly affronted at her pasties being so bluntly labelled as "revolting" by a a rather posh-sounding customer who hadn't even tried one, but she rattled off the price with good grace. It didn't do to show oneself up in public by making a scene. "That will be 1 galleon please, sir."

"£5 madam for that little lot, are you mad? And I thought France was an expensive place... Oh very well, here you are." he fished out a £5 note from his battered leather wallet and handed it over in a manner ill-befitting the rank of angel. "Just take this to that Gringotts place and they'll give you a Galleon, whatever that is."

After once again sitting down, and opening his Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and offering them around and the long-overdue introductions had finally been made; Ron and Hermione entered the compartment some seven minutes after Aziraphale had once more buried himself behind _The Times_ and Luna was once more studying her unusual magazine (upside-down).

"Can you _believe_ who they've chosen as prefects for Slytherin?" Harry heard Hermione's voice say as he was swapping his Chocolate Frog card of _Zombo the Effervescent_ (inventor of the grendlesnatch illuminator who mysteriously disappeared during a Muggle magic show when he was supposed to be making a flock of pigeons vanish) for Neville's _Salacia Huxley_ (first known unofficial female Quidditch player in Great Britain). He looked up and saw her looking rather hot and bothered6.

"Well I'll bet you can guess that Malfoy's been made the boy prefect for Slytherin." Ron said sourly, flopping down onto the seat beside Harry and plunging his hand into Aziraphale's half-empty box of Every-Flavour Beans.

"Yes, and that complete cow Pansy Parkinson was made girl prefect. I bet it would have been Draco's chum Dolohov as second prefect, only he's the wrong gender so Snape had to plump for Pansy." Hermione added bitterly, squashing in next to Ginny and Neville. "Who's that?" she whispered, nodding her head towards _The Times_.

Ron peered at the picture on the front of the newspaper and read the caption. "It's... The Rt. Hon. Peter Thorn, PhD, the Muggle Prime Minister."

"I know who the Prime Minister is, for heaven's sake." Hermione snapped loudly "I meant," she added in a lower voice "Who the person behind the newspaper is. I'm just curious as to what our new teacher is like."

The newspaper rustled and folded, revealing the angel. He peered at Hermione in a mock-stern glare before softening. "He is rather like this, my dear. Every-Flavour Bean, anyone? I'm becoming quite partial to them."

He held out the box and proffered it to everyone in turn. He himself selected a pearly-coloured bean and chewed on it thoughtfully. Harry imagined he heard the word "Noel" escape the new professor's lips before the angel blushed more crimson than the livery of the train and muttered "Well I never...Fancy putting _that_ kind of flavour in children's sweets. I shall have words with the manufacturers..." and rose The Times as defensive barrier between himself and his new pupils.

(_)

Anthony J Crowley was pleased with the turn of speed his Bentley was producing (a very impressive 279 mph on good motorways), and after stopping briefly to read a road sign, continued on his way along the potholed and narrow country lane somewhere in the Scottish interior. He now regretted throwing away the SatNav and considered corporating another one into existence. He'd had several heated arguments with it (and it had won most of them) until he decided to donate it to the nation.7 He thanked his lucky stars that his BlackBerry contained a far less argumentative GPS system and had linked it to Hell to provide directions for his safe passage to Hogwarts via car.

After turning off the country lane and onto a rutted field track, he discovered that the BlackBerry was guiding him towards the base of a sheer mountain cliff. A fiery portal appeared withing the scarred and leering rock face and, without any large amount of hesitation (none more so than usual when dealing with Downstairs) Crowley's foot stamped down hard on the accelerator and plunged into the gateway.

(_)

1 ZDZ: Many would claim that the inspectors of HM Customs & Inland Revenue are simply Dementors on sabbatical.

2 ZDZ: Even his father would concede that such an action would have made a considerable improvement.

3 ZDZ: It had long been known that being human again would be repugnant to the Librarian, because he had rather gotten used to it. If a castle full of enchanted furniture had felt the same way, Walt Disney would have been forced to make an entirely different movie (and some would be of the opinion that this would not necessarily be a bad thing).

4 ZDZ: Both Heaven and Hell have, at one point in their careers, headed their company notepaper with the slogan "We put the Fun in Fundamental so You don't have to worry about your pitiful existence!" after the retired glove and second-hand potato-cuber salesman who had dreamed up the slogan had been bounced between both Places and everywhere in between had, after a stroke of genius, finally been reincarnated as himself for all eternity (and been driven mad by the sense of déja-vu); both God and Satan denied having been responsible and agreed that God could keep the deluxe lawnmower if Satan could reclaim his antique Bengali nest tables.

5 ZDZ: The entry to 6 Across had been partially filled in. _"An action of great emotion and passion which is believed to represent the opposite values held by the virtues of rhetoric."_ Whoever claimed that Violence never solves anything?

6 ZDZ: Or as Ronald Weasley might be inclined to remark: her usual emotional state, except perhaps when she has her nose deep within a book.

7 ZDZ: Namely, in several pieces on the M1 underpass near Gossington.


	13. Chapter 11

**Chapt'r thee Eleven'th**

The Bentley bounced wildly along the rutted lane, although even the word "lane" was a generous promotion to give that muddy stretch of barren track. Crowley's BlackBerry seemed to be guiding him towards a large, looming shape, obscured by thin lashings of rain and the dense forest.

He slammed on the brakes with a good deal of force as he saw it for the first time, and _almost_ gasped. A truly mammoth castle towered high above him, its many windows shimmering with soft golden light. Sharp fingerlike spires strained out to grope the heavens (only flat-topped buildings scrape) and, below the great castle's crag was an immense lake that wound lazily through the valley.

The road dipped suddenly and the car swept down it, almost colliding with a colossal pair of wrought-iron gates, whose posts were topped with winged boars. These saluted at Crowley and allowed the gates to swing open by themselves. Crowley stamped down hard on the accelerator and careened up the winding gravel drive with carefree abandon.

The large front doors to the castle loomed towards him and creaked open, hastening to part before that devilish car as it mounted the steps and bounced into the Entrance Hall.

Crowley brought his beloved Bentley to a screaming dead halt and leapt out dramatically, and then proceeded to draw a chalk circle (with additional runes and demonic sigils around the edge) to protect the car from any meddling students.

Anthony J. Crowley's enhanced hearing was unnecessary even to him at that moment, as his destination was obvious. He paused outside the truly colossal gold- and brass-coloured double doors of the Great Hall, smoothed his ties, straightened his shades and fixed a cool smile on his face. _Beeblebrox ain't got nuthin' on this._

With a great sweeping motion of his arms, the double doors swung open slowly enough to be considered dramatic without appearing overly-ostentatious. What greeted him behind them was a sight and a half. Four long tables stretched for what seemed an age towards the far end of the Hall, where a fifth table spanned a good portion of the width of the Hall perpendicular to its fellows.

The four House tables were currently empty; the students not yet having arrived from the train**1**. Most of the teaching staff (at least, those who took regular meals within the Hall) were seated in their usual places at the staff table.

Crowley, employing his natural swaggering gait, allowed his shiny snakeskin shoes to propel him on autopilot to his seat next to a certain blonde teacher who was ducking down in his seat, his face more maroon than could be judged healthy.

He looked at Aziraphale, he looked deeply into those azure eyes, stared into the soul of his opposite number, the words of great joy and longing playing around his tongue in a plenitude of celebration, preparing the great platitudes that, which Crowley would never have been prepared to admit before he was going to say now, fully, with every fibre in his being laid bare for all to see, he would tell his angel exactly what he felt upon seeing him, was what his brain had intended.

"'Sup, 'Zira." Was what his mouth actually _said_.

Aziraphale suddenly looked rather more hurt than Crowley would have believed the stuffy, bookish figure could ever achieve to look. 'Remorse' is rarely a word that appears in a demon's vocabulary, let alone an actual emotion within the cerebral cortex, but Crowley received a painful pinprick of it in his little grey cells (he didn't posses anything like an aortic pump that could be compared to being responsible for emotions).

"After all we've been through togeth-" the angel whispered, trying to gain some small explanation for the lukewarm greeting he'd received.

"Did I mention that my tax inspector came round last week and confiscated my entire property?" Crowley said loudly, gently tilting his head to the far-off ceiling, which was reflecting the mood of the night sky above.

As the angel spoke his left eye started twitching madly at the mention of the dreaded creatures. "They they they can't hear you; Professor Dumbledore has a written agreement from both Heaven and Hell that the Au-Au-Au-Auditors are f-f-_for_bidden –" he coughed with embarrassment at his visible nervous tics concerning Auditors and continued in a more sane speech pattern, "- within the castle and grounds, except for our classrooms, naturally." The angel completed somewhat sniffily.

Feeling that a more lively change of subject was required, Crowley attempted to up the anti. "Have you seen this place? It's like Pugin's wet dream!"

"It is rather spectacular." Aziraphale replied, before gesturing towards the table surface laden with its customary gold-and-silver plate and cutlery, "Although the tableware seems somewhat extravagant."

"Silly me, I forgot that in Heaven you eat cheese rolls off cardboard plates and drank reconstituted fish bits in polystyrene cups." The demon responded with more than a small hint of irony in his voice.

"We do indeed, ever since The Boss started all those cutbacks. So I've been told by Gabriel. Apparently now the only time they eat to excess is during Lent. Cosmic sympathy, or something." Aziraphale said without registering the demon's sarcasm.

Crowley chose this moment to turn his head to the empty chair next to his. "Glad I'm not the only one late."

"I think you're in my seat, Alistair," Said a voice that was all too familiar.

Crowley banged his head on the table several times whilst moaning, "Oh dear _god _no! Why are you here? Why? Of all the places in time and space, why here? Whenever you show up there's something weird going on! What is it this time? Flesh-eating lizards? Pirate Zombie Ninja Robots? Intelligent quicksand?"

"Technically, there's always something weird going on somewhere; but as it happens I simply like the food, and as the newly-appointed school psychonomist**2** I am entitled to eat said food with impunity." Nostradamus (for it was he) sat down in the vacant seat, leaned over towards the demon and whispered "Actually I'm here for 'Zira, I've noticed that lately he's seemed…unbalanced."

Crowley nodded and looked again at the angel, whom now he noticed, was wearing a somewhat glassy expression on his cherubic countenance. He was about ask more, but the doors of the Great Hall, which had closed, were now opening ceremoniously and the students began to pour in to the massive space, chattering and laughing, looking forwards to a fresh new year of study (or at least, that's what the teachers preferred to imagine).

To his left he noticed a small squat dumpy-looking woman in a hideous pink woolly cardigan, who he was sure wasn't sitting there when he'd last looked at the space. He felt a rush of hatred, malice and venomous cruelty ooze from her in a deadly effervescence. It was this feeling (and the awful fashion statement) that suddenly brought him to release who she was. She was that Umbridge woman, the Minister for Magic's Permanent Secretary, or whatever equivalent these wizards called it. Umbridge looked for allthe world like a fat stuffed toad, as she stared grimly out over the Hall, her eyes washing over each youthful face, studying it as a frog might calculate the best flies to gobble up with its long sticky tongue.

Professor Dumbledore, looking as resplendent as ever in his magnificent purple velvet robes, rose to his feet and ushered with his hands, the students back into theirs, and began his speech. "My friends, old and new, welcome to another year at Hogwarts! Another turn of the orbital clock, filled with laughter, life, hope, tears, tragedies, comedies, heartbreak, backache, headache and sponge cake! And perhaps some studying might happen as well if we're-"(Here he gestured towards the teaching staff) "- fortunate! As I'm sure you have gathered, we have some new faces not only among the students, but also in our teaching arrangement. Although our curriculum will continue much as it did before, a few alterations have been made."

The headmaster paused to allow the predicted ripple of befuddlement and confusion time to mature and dissipate before continuing. "From the beginning of term, Muggle Study classes as taught by Professor Burbage, are completely cancelled –" Dumbledore paused as another wave of discord rocketed around the Great Hall. The Slytherin table gave rise to a great susurrus of approval.

"-and is to be replaced by our new Non-Magical Studies Faculty, chaired by the good Professor Burbage. Non-Magical studies are to become compulsory for everyone, and in addition to OWLs you will study GCSEs, the Muggle equivalent. A-Levels, however, like NEWTs, are purely at the mercy of your own whim. To assist Professor Burbage we have three new teachers, Professor Crowley, Professor Aziraphale and Dr Malheur-"

(Dumbledore gestured to the demon, the angel, and the…cat-person, whose appearance was causing a small stir) there was yet another pause to allow the students processing time until hush once more descended (distinctly the words "those Muggle nutters who cut people open" floated around the hall several times) "-to whom I am sure you will give a warm Hogwarts welcome. Our next new teacher is Professor Umbridge, who will be filling the vacant post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Now, Quidditch tryouts-"

"_Hem hem._" Came the silly simpering little cough that had irritated the angel and the demon at harry Potter's hearing rang once more within their ears. Dumbledore, ever gracious, looked enquiringly at Umbridge, and then sat down, allowing her to claim the floor.

"Oh thank you, headmaster," said Umbridge (in a truly revoltingly high-pitched voice that would have been better suited to a girl of nine from 1930) as if she hadn't just interrupted one of the most powerful wizards on the planet, and went on, "for that very kind introduction. As I look across at all your smiling little faces, I am certain that we all, each and every one of us, become the greatest of friends over the next year. The Minister for Magic has asked me to tell you that certain…" and her voice trailed off into a very long-winded and dull speech involving salubrious phrases and a great deal of sesquipedalian loquaciousness. It seemed that only Professor Dumbledore, Dr Nostradamus Malheur and student Hermione Granger (seated at the Gryffindor table with her friends Harry Potter and Ron Weasley) appeared to be paying at the end of her lecture. Crowley had tried to follow what she was driving at, due to Hell's prerogative to always Know Thine Enemy, but he lost interest after two minutes. Aziraphale had lapsed into a spooky torpor of mad serenity a few minutes beforehand.

He elbowed Nostradamus in the ribs "how can you-?" but he was shushed into irritated silence. Only after Umbridge was finished did that cat deign to speak.

"That was the biggest pile of horse eggs I have ever had to sit through, and I've been to lectures at Unseen University AND the Aperture Science Laboratories field day. But it was useful, apparently this Ministry of Magic is poking its nose in where it isn't wanted…hmmmm." He paused for thought, as Dumbledore finished the remainder of his speech. "…and now, the time for talk is over. Time to mput our mouths to the purpose for which they serve us best, let the feast begin!" With a flourish of his wand that created shimmering sparks in the air, food seemed to magically appear on all the serving dishes lining the centres of the tables at once.

Everyone tucked in with great gusto, and Aziraphale, having eaten too much sherry trifle, was propped up by Crowley and Nostradamus as they half-dragged him out of the Hall. They were escorted by Dumbledore himself to the Sixth Floor, outside two doors, both opposite each other. One for Crowley and one for the inebriated angel, who was now softly crooning "Mrs Worthington**3**". They deposited him inside on a bed within an inner chamber, and closed the main office door behind them.

"I will bid you goodnight Professor Crowley, and good luck tomorrow!" said Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling benevolently, "And now, Dr Malheur, I will take you to your office, it is on the second floor, just by the…"

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief as they trailed away into the distance, glad that that crazy psychonomist was at least some good measure of distance away from his own lodgings. He stepped into his office and discovered it had been furnished to resemble his London flat. He smiled in approval and began to torment the unsuspecting and innocent aspidistra sitting in a nearby corner, a small smile playing about his lips.

This year was going to be fun…

**A/N:** I am sincerely sorry for the great gap in between this installment and the last. A lot's been going on in my personal life and I regret I haven't had as much time to devote to this fanfic as I'd hoped. A special mention goes to someone close to my heart who gave me the new second name for my character Nostradamus – originally his name was Nostradamus Iggma, as in: Dr N. Iggma or "enigma". Since when my significant other first read this and didn't know Nos's surname he thought that "Malheur" would be appropriate. So there we have it, "Malheur" which is loose French for "bad moment" is rather appropriate. (I posted this at the bottom so as not to disturb my [hopefully] eager audience.)

1 ZDZ: Although Aziraphale, being a member of staff, had been flown from the Hogsmeade train station via broomstick in order to be seated in the Great Hall when the students filed in. Even Hogwarts has to keep up appearances.

2 ZDZ: A combination of psychologist, psychoanalyst, psychotherapist, psychometrist and tailor. No-one ever dares to ask what he does with the laser-guided automatic scissors.

3 ZDZ: Alas, not as raunchy as it might first sound. I checked. Or rather, Mr Morely-Eddington did.


End file.
